


I'm Your Private Dancer

by dollyboy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Angst, Drinking, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Violence, Past Drug Use, Prostitution, Slow Build, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 161,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollyboy/pseuds/dollyboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is a cynical asshole who has no friends, needs no one, and doesn't believe in love in any shape or form. Well, he has one friend, and he knows nothing about Jean's life. It's a good setting, enough for Jean. After all, he shamelessly takes his clothes off and dances for money (and if you pay enough, he'll do pretty much anything), and it doesn't exactly make a great conversation starter. "Hi, my name is Jean and I'm a stripper slash prostitute. I'm also pretty darn gay." Everything's good and nothing hurts until one day Jean is hired for a birthday party. A birthday party that consists of one person: Marco. As it turns out, it's just a big prank to embarrass Marco, since none of his friends actually know he's gay.</p><p>Marco is a blushing virgin (so Jean seems to think), as naïve and sweet as they come, and my god Jean can't stand it. But Marco is hypnotized by the younger guy, completely oblivious to Jean's snarky sarcasm and misanthropic view of the world. Hell, he's ready to pay good money just to <i>see</i> Jean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I'm dumping here every freaking thing I've ever written. This is another thing I want to continue, because hngh I have so many ~~great~~ ideas for this one. I really don't know how to tag this (yet), so yeah.
> 
> Do I need to remind you of this [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com) you should visit?

_All the men come in these places_  
 _And the men are all the same_  
 _You don't look at their faces_  
 _And you don't ask their names_  
 _You don't think of them as human_  
 _You don't think of them at all_  
 _You keep your mind on the money_  
 _Keeping your eyes on the wall_

Private Dancer - Tina Turner

 

This was turning out to be a good night. There were unusually many people around considering it was only a Thursday. Suits everywhere, Jean didn’t think he saw one guy less than 40 years around. It didn’t matter, though, the older they were, the more money they threw around. The younger ones loved teasing him, waving their few dollars around like they were doing fucking charity work and he was their poor-in-need for the night. He played along, amused them, danced for them as they gave him hungry looks and fiddled the money in their sweaty fingers. And whenever they slid a dollar or two down his thong, he’d flirt with them mercilessly, like their money was the best thing to happen to him. The poor bastards bought his act, losing a track of the money they’d spent on him. He could see the erections they hid under the tables, shifting around uncomfortably in their chairs. And whenever they had enough money for a lap dance, he’d grind against their crotches as if accidentally, just to see them getting hot and bothered; their faces flustering and stomachs tightening. He despised them, all of them, but for their money he was ready to suck it up and do almost anything.

 

And by doing anything, he meant _anything._ Like taking them to the back room, where he and his colleagues gave private dances to the, how could you put it, more shy customers. He’d turn off the security camera, take their money and get on his knees in front of them. Sometimes all they wanted was to jerk off while he watched, but he made them pay the same as the rest. Usually they wanted a blowjob, and if Jean was brutally honest, that was what paid his bills and ensured he wouldn’t have to eat instant noodles for a month through. The dancing didn’t pay much, most of the nights the bar was filled with horny students, who had no more than maybe 40 or 50 bucks in their pockets. They’d throw him a five or a ten at best, and if he was lucky, at the end of the night he’d have maybe 60 dollars. The weekends were different, of course, but since they had more dancers than needed, he only got Friday and Saturday shifts maybe once or twice a month. It didn’t bother Jean too much, though, because weekends tended to be the only days of the week nowadays that he had time to just sit back and relax. And what that meant was that weekends were the only days he had time to push through unfinished essays and presentations. He wasn’t struggling with college because he was stupid, no, quite the contrary, but with classes during the day and work during the night he didn’t have much time to sleep, let alone concentrate on anything but the work at hand.

 

And at this moment he was concentrating on getting his best act as possible on. He felt good today, unusually good, and the long stares and the lusty gazes he got from the men sitting around the small platform boosted that feeling. Someone whistled as he marched around the platform. He gazed over his shoulder and gave a suggestive wink as he wrapped one of his legs around the pole in the middle. With his hand on the pole and one foot on the ground, he took a running start and slid around the pole easily, grabbing it with both of his hands. He arched his back and lifted his other foot off the ground. He worked his way up on the pole, arching his back even more, until he was in upright position, facing the ground. He knew he was hot, he knew the customers were going crazy over his body (they better – he had put a shitload of gym hours on it to get it look like this), and he showed off his skills a little more enthusiastically than he meant to. Someone yelled at him shamelessly to show his cock, and a few other men joined this chanting. He slid off the pole gracefully, and dropped on his knees. He rested his hands on the ground and slowly, painfully so, made his way to the edge of the platform. They were throwing dollars at him, and someone was fanning himself with a fistful of them. That customer caught Jean’s attention, and he quickly analysed him by his looks: An expensive looking suit that fit him well, a tie pin that looked like it might be real silver, hair transplants and an admirable gut under his shirt. That meant he liked to eat well and didn’t care how much it cost. He made a “come here” sign with his fat finger, and Jean cocked his head to the side. He licked his lips and smiled slyly, eyeing the stranger exaggeratedly long. After making the suit wait a little, flirting with the men pushing dollars down his thong, someone trying to cop a feel, he crawled to the guy, who had to be in his mid-fifties, and leaned his face close to his. He was sitting down and they were on the same eye-level with Jean on all his fours, and he could see sweat forming on the suit’s newly-planted hairline.

 

“You want a lap dance?” Jean purred gazing the stranger with the flirtiest look he could manage. Sometimes he practiced in front of the mirror because he wanted to get his customers to relax and trust him (falsely so, of course), so they would give up their money more willingly. He licked his lower lip slowly and bit down on it, sucking it in his mouth. The suit was now sweating very visibly, and he gave a few nods. Jean got up on his feet and walked down the platform, some of the other men giving dissatisfied moans. Jean threw a kiss at them.

“Aw, I’ll be back soon, I promise”, he told them, before paying all his attention to the fatty. He leaned over him, placing his hands on the suit’s shoulders.

“You wanna go somewhere quieter?” he asked, his voice soft and disarming. The suit nodded again, trying to grab a feel of Jean. The blonde guy moved back, waved his finger and made a little sound of disapproval.

“Tut-tut. That will get you thrown out I’m afraid”, he crooned. The suit looked so disappointed that Jean almost felt sorry for him, before resentment replaced its place in his mind. He guided the guy up and to the back room, where he sat him down, turned off the camera and did whatever the rich bastard wanted him to do for his money. With a little excessive complimenting he got the guy throw in a little extra. A good night, indeed.

 

It was well past two in the morning when Jean finally called it a night. Saying his byes to the staff and his colleagues, he pulled his jacket on and made it outside. The night had been real good to him, he’d made a little over a hundred, and he was satisfied with it. When he got outside, he placed eagerly a cigarette between his lips and lighted it. He took a long drag out of it, focusing on the bittersweet taste. It relaxed him, and he noticed just how tense he was. He rubbed his neck and winced. His shoulders and neck were sore as fuck, he’d need a good massage to make the stiffness disappear. Or a long, hot bath and a good wank. Big, fluffy flakes of snow were falling from the sky gently on Jean’s hair and jacket, and it was enjoyably quiet. He stood outside the place a little while, breathing in the fresh, cold air that stung his lungs a bit, and it helped him clear his mind. He started walking, the fresh snow muffling the sound of his steps. The cigarette made his head spin a little, and he thanked the gods his place wasn’t too far. He was exhausted and longing for the comfort of his bed.

 

One of his biggest incomes was from bachelor and bachelorette parties. Those didn’t happen too often, unfortunately, but when they did, Jean put all the effort he could muster up to make the cheering guys or gals go nuts. He got paid in advance, so anything he got stuffed down his pants was extra. Unless it was the hero-of-the day’s hands, in which case it was the necessary evil of his job. The downside to bachelorette parties was that he didn’t do girls, not even for money. Sometimes he let them blow him, but going down on them wasn’t his cup of tea. He’d tried fucking them, but it didn’t feel right, and his past girls had noticed it pretty fast. “It’s not you, it’s me. No, really, I’m gay, so…” In bachelor parties there were always horny, straight dudes who were too drunk to attract any girls. So Jean did the dirty deed, giving them the relief they yearned for, for money, and everyone went home happily: The guys telling themselves they weren’t gay and Jean telling himself that it had been a successful evening. He never let them fuck him, and very rarely they wanted to get fucked by him. But when they did, Jean obeyed, imagining he was banging some really hot, young guy. They were never either of those things. When he started doing this, three years ago now he counted, taking his clothes off at the sight of money (and other things), he was too young, too naïve and very, very stupid, and let a couple of guys go further. It was a disaster, and he was never going back there. One thing he had also learned was to never do relationships. He even kept his friends away at an arm’s length, just to be sure. Everyone will let you down eventually, that’s how he saw it, and it was better to be alone. Not to mention with what he did, people were bound to get jealous. Sometimes he picked guys up from bars, had mind-blowing sex with them, and then kicked them out come morning. He never gave his real name or phone number, and after an incident with some clingy bastard, he had stopped taking them to his place for a while. Sometimes guys recognised him (mostly regular customers) and if they were hot, Jean was happy to flirt with them through the night, letting them buy him drinks and grab his ass on the dance floor. If he played his cards right, he got to fuck them and they even paid for it. He only did guys he knew would bottom, just to be careful. He’d seen and been through enough, and he was taking zero chances with dominant assholes.

 

The next morning rolled in through the windows just as steadily and unpleasantly as every other morning. The alarm clock went off and Jean groaned, pulling the blankets further over his head. He tried to hold onto the dream he had had, ignoring the annoying beeping sound, squeezing his eyes shut tight, but just as sure he knew he was awake, the dream faded and left its lingering aftertaste in his mind. He didn’t know what it had been, but it had to have been better than this. He had slept less than five hours, and his hazy mind and aching body made sure to remind him of it. He stretched his limbs, slowly pulling the covers off. He shuddered at the cold air, goose bumps running over his skin. He reached his hand over to the nightstand, grabbed his vibrating phone and half-blindly silenced the alarm. It was still dark outside, and if possible, that depressed Jean even more. As he slowly pulled himself up from the warm embrace of his bed, his muscles cried out in pain and exhaustion, and he crawled to the bathroom. The apartment he was renting was old and in poor condition, but he got it ridiculously cheap (mostly because the landlady fancied him and hadn’t yet realised or admitted to herself that he was 101 % gay) and it was better than nothing. It wasn’t like he was going to live there for the rest of his life, it was just temporary. Yes, temporary. That’s what he had said four years ago, when he moved in the apartment.

 

“See, this is just temporary. I’ll find a better one when I find a job that pays me more than delivering those fucking pizzas.” Those were his exact words. His best friend, his _only_ friend, just stared at him.

“Have you even _seen_ the kitchen, man?” he asked, stroking his short hair.

“Dude. Do I look like I cook? That’s what’s take-out for. And no, I haven’t, in case you need to know”, Jean rolled his eyes, giving out an exaggeratedly theatrical sigh. Connie just shook his head, knowing better than to give a lecture about healthy life choices. He was crazy about eating right, doing his daily exercises and sleeping enough in the night. Jean never admitted to it anyone, not even to himself, but he hated the guy for it. Not because he was jealous, but because it made him feel like a loser compared to Connie. Seriously, the guy had it all, a perfect body and a girlfriend and a sane brain and he had no idea what self-loathing felt like. He had known Jean since they were snotty-nosed kids with their knees in bruises from climbing trees and falling on their bikes. Sometimes they both wondered what had kept them as friends for so long. Connie didn’t smoke or drink, never had, and he couldn’t understand Jean’s way of living. He never judged him, not out loud, but if Jean had known how much Connie sometimes pitied him, he would’ve killed himself. Pity was the worst, and Connie had long learned to hide it in his face. Even when Jean had shown up behind his door in the middle of the night, night after night after night, his face covered with a mixture of blood and tears and vomit. Even when he held the blonde guy through it all as his skin was burning up and he trembled with the coldness eating him from the inside, puking his guts out, crying until he couldn’t breathe. Even when he had to loan the guy money, because he was broke and even when he knew Jean could never pay him back. He didn’t care about the money or the trouble Jean put him through, they were best friends and he loved him like a brother, but he hated worrying because of him. He hated that Jean never seemed to even realise how much worry and stress he put Connie through. After all the years they had known each other, he had learned to not to ask too much, and Jean had learned to not tell too much. His drug addiction had been the scratch of the surface on his problems, and he was never going to put Connie through any of that again. He concealed all the darkness in his mind and let out only the stuff he knew wouldn’t worry Connie. He hated being a nuisance; he hated being the one that people took care of. He hated the fact that he owed Connie so much, and not only money-wise. Sometimes it ate him alive and he loathed himself, felt so ashamed and so worthless. But he loved Connie, no matter what, had sometimes loved him a little too much. Fortunately the short-haired guy knew nothing of that; completely oblivious to the fact that Jean had worshipped him from the moment they had met as kids. He had managed to keep it to himself, and when Connie got together with the girl of his dreams, Jean forced himself to be happy for them. The feeling had, in the end, turned into reality and after that he could watch them together without feeling like his heart was ripped out of his chest.

 

“It’s just temporary, six months or so.” And so the subject was dropped. Connie never mentioned Jean’s apartment again, and they both pretended that weeks hadn’t turned into months and months hadn’t turned into years. Just like they pretended many other things were something they were not. But somehow it all worked for them, they didn’t talk any of the real things going on in life, not in Jean’s life anyway, and for passing moments they felt like everything was alright in the universe, and time stopped outside those moments. Connie forgot the exhaustion and the fear and anxiety of a caged animal he saw in Jean’s eyes, and Jean forgot how loneliness sometimes tore him apart when he saw Sasha and Connie together. Connie didn’t know for sure where the blonde guy worked, but he had his own suspicions. Whenever the subject was even briefly brought up, Jean explained clumsily something about helping the needy or running errands to someone or something just as stupid and then steered the conversation into another direction. Connie recognised these traps, and to him Jean was like a minefield. Any subject, any at all, could hit a sore spot and make him either close up or straight up lie in his face. So he never mentioned the things again, and the list was getting rather long. They never talked about Jean’s parents, his work, money, his past, his current life – his relationships. Mostly because Connie was the only person in whose presence Jean felt ashamed of being gay. He’d happily come out to his parents, even though he knew it would get him kicked out of the deeply religious house, and he had no problem at all rubbing it in everyone’s faces when he was younger with an attitude. But with Connie he never talked about it, even though the guy had been supportive about it.

 

So why were they still friends? If asked, neither of them would have known the answer, not really. Maybe it was because to Connie Jean was like family, and you take care of your family even when they piss you off and hurt you. Or maybe it was because Connie was the only person in the world that could make Jean laugh, and when he didn’t feel like talking, they could comfortably share the silence, enjoy it even. Or maybe it was because Jean had no one else. After being thrown out of his home at the age of 16, he had pretty much cut everyone out of his life, in the hopes for starting anew. He had tried to cut Connie out, too, but somehow the older guy had managed to claw his way back. Jean never knew why, not to this day. He had been a horrible friend, a selfish prick, and yet there Connie was. Standing in his new, shitty apartment with him, keeping his mouth shut when they both knew he wanted to say so many things. Like “maybe you should live with me until you find something better”, or “your ceiling’s leaking”. And above all, he loved the guy for it. Maybe the answer was that simple.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean really is an asshole, but he likes good food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 1 AM and I am so TIRED so if there are any mistakes I didn't notice, do tell me. This was fun to write.

It was Sunday, Jean’s least-favourite day. It was the day that he always remembered all the stuff he _should’ve_ done that week but hadn’t. He was out with Connie, having way too expensive coffee that the short-haired guy had insisted on paying for. It was an eternal struggle: Connie offering to pay for this and that and Jean refusing, and this tragicomic show always lasted several minutes before Jean finally grunted a submissive _fine_. And Connie felt all too pleased with himself after having won again, rubbing it in Jean’s face just a little. Secretly Jean felt relieved and grateful whenever Connie offered to pay for something, yet his pride didn’t let him just accept the offerings without making a number of it.

  
“Seriously though, you should’ve seen his face.”

“Mm”, Jean sipped his coffee. Shit, he could live off of this stuff. All he needed in life was coffee, sex, and cigarettes and he was good to go. He held the cup in both of his hands, his long fingers wrapped around it. The surface was hot, almost burning his skin, but at the same time warming him enjoyably.

“He looked so _horrified_ like you wouldn’t believe. So I tell him…”

“Who?”

“Jesus, Jean, try to follow alright? Reiner, you remember him? The big, blonde guy?”

“The one with the squint?”

“Don’t say that to his face, man, he’d total you. But yeah, that’s the guy. So anyway…”

“He the one seeing that really tall guy who sweats all the time?”

“Bert. Yeah, the same guy alright. He has some kinda condition which makes him sweat constantly, I don’t know. Listen, what I’m saying is, this guy, he’s _terrified_ of birds, right?”

“Birds?”

“Yeah, birds. Man, I just told you all this, did you pay any attention?”

“Sorry, I just really don’t care about Randy or his fear of ducks or whatever.”

“Birds.”

“Ducks _are_ birds.”

“Yeah but I mean the flying type of birds.”

“Last I heard ducks flew, too.”

“Shut up. Fine, I won’t tell you how he almost pissed his pants, then.” Jean snorted.

“Good, ‘cause I _really_ don’t care.” He took a long sip of the coffee, humming as the hot liquid warmed him on the inside.

“Also, his name is Reiner and you know it damn well, you’re just trying to annoy me”, Connie huffed. Jean gave him a smirk.

“Is it working?” Connie rolled his eyes and emptied the contents of his own cup. He placed it on the table and fiddled it around, reading the text printed on the side over and over again. _I have measured out my life with coffee spoons_ , by T. S. Eliot.

“This could be you”, he turned the cup to face Jean. The blonde guy gave his best not-impressed look he could manage, and Connie grinned.

“The amount you consume coffee per day is unhealthy, man. Try sleeping once in a while, it’s completely free.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead”, Jean raised his cup along with his eyebrows, and pretended to clink his cup with Connie. He mouthed _cheers_ before chugging down rest of the black gold. It burnt his tongue, but he grinned bravely at the other guy, who shook his head.

“With your lifestyle that might happen faster than you think”, he muttered under his breath. Jean’s mouth flew open and he leaned forward, and he was _this close_ shooting an angry comment at Connie, but the guy continued before Jean got a chance to say anything.

“Sasha’s cooking her famous roast tonight, you wanna come?”

“What’s the occasion?” Yes, Jean as hell wanted to come, Sasha was the best cook he knew at this side of the town – hell, any side of the town – and the canned beans in his fridge didn’t exactly make him drool in anticipation. He didn’t know why he even bought them, he _hated_ beans. He hated many other foods, too, he was a rather picky eater, and it had always bothered his mom. “You’ll vanish into thin air if you don’t start eating properly”, was what she used to say. Sure, he was kind of thin, but it wasn’t like he was _unhealthy_ skinny. He just didn’t need to eat that much.

“I’m sure she’ll want to tell you herself”, was Connie’s mysterious reply. Usually Jean would’ve protested and made Connie tell, but the thought of eating _real_ food for once was way too tempting.

“Sure, I guess I don’t have anything else.”

 

Now, Jean didn’t like many people. To be brutally honest, he didn’t like people, period. He didn’t get along with anyone who had a pulse, mostly because he made it his business not to get along with them. He didn’t go looking for trouble, but sometimes it was hard to avoid people and their stupid opinions and big, yapping mouths. Not many got his dark sense of humour or liked the way he mocked people openly, and sometimes he got into arguments with strangers because of that. When he was at work, he sucked it up, glued a fake smile on his face, and kept his mouth shut, but outside work, he did whatever he pleased. He _hated_ it if anyone talked to him at a subway or on the street or wherever. He _hated_ if anyone tried to engage him in a conversation about anything, especially if it was about boring stuff like politics, sports, news, weather, famous people and whatever the hell they had done this time. He also couldn’t have cared less about how other people were doing. Smalltalk was his worst nightmare, and he avoided all the situations that might lead to it. He rarely talked to other students at classes, and he had gained a reputation that kept them away. He didn’t know what people were talking about him behind his back, but as long as they avoided eye contact with him and stayed away, it didn’t matter to him. He wasn’t a complete loner, though. He had a couple of acquaintances with whom he hung out sometimes. They were people he’d met somewhere else, outside college, like Ymir. She had worked with him at the same, lousy pizza place, and they had hit it off pretty fast because of their similar, unordinary sense of humour. Ymir was a rather big woman, taller than Jean, and she had broad shoulders and a face that looked like she could kill someone. Jean liked that. She was a vegan and a feminist, and she often took part in different rallies. She had dragged Jean along once, and there he had met her girlfriend Christa. Christa was the complete opposite of Ymir when it came to looks – tiny, blue-eyed blonde, who was smiling constantly – and she was sweet, friendly, and kind-hearted. These things Jean had learned much later, though, because when she was protesting something, she was fucking loud and scary. She was a lioness in a girl’s body, and Jean was a little intimidated by the two of them at the time. When the riot police had managed to break their formation and was hauling some of the protestors away, Christa had climbed Ymir’s shoulders and was shouting at them, telling them they were the devil’s minions. Jean had been taken away, too, but it didn’t matter to him: he was way too amazed by the little blonde by then to feel shit about it. He was smiling all the way to the police station, and it had probably been the best day of his whole life. Christa and Ymir bailed him out later, both of them apologising for him getting caught, Christa cursing like a sailor, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all. After that he hung out with the two girls more often, and he enjoyed their company more than he was willing to admit. With them he didn’t have to talk about meaningless things or pretend that he was happy when he was not. He liked to be alone, and he had never needed anyone, but now he had these two people he actually _liked_ in his life, and that scared the living shit out of him. _Everyone will let you down eventually_ had been his mantra since day one, and he was scared and anxious that if he let these two too close, they would end up abandoning him like everyone else before them. He couldn’t afford liking people, but Ymir’s straight-forwardness and obscene humour and Christa’s warmness and fierce personality (which she didn’t show often enough) pretty much melted him, and he let his guards down. It was around that time that Jean agreed to blow a customer for money for the first time.

 

He didn’t talk about Ymir or Christa to Connie too much. He mentioned their names a couple of times, but that was that. Connie was curious, but he knew all too well than to ask too many questions. All he cared about was the fact that Jean seemed to enjoy their company, he even seemed _happy_ , and that was good. Connie was happy for him. Jean’s face lit up those times when he briefly mentioned Ymir’s and Christa’s names, no matter how hard he tried to act cool about it. Connie always nodded approvingly, and had casually mentioned once that he would like to meet the two sometimes. Yeah, sure, why not, Jean had answered. They never did. Jean felt strangely protective about his new friends, not to mention he knew all too well that Ymir and Connie would not like each other. Connie would’ve been polite and nice, but Ymir was a loudmouth who said sometimes too much and didn’t always know how to _not_ hurt people’s feelings. The difference between Ymir and Jean was that Jean knew he hurt people but didn’t care, while Ymir didn’t do it intentionally. She was just a little too honest with a drop of provocativeness, and although Jean prided himself for not caring about anything or anyone, he did care about Connie, and respected the guy enough not to put him in that situation. He also knew where there was Connie, there would be Sasha, and Sasha was sensitive and she would’ve cracked like an eggshell under Ymir’s coarse comments. Connie felt hurt that Jean didn’t introduce his new friends to him, his _best friend_ , but didn’t say anything. Like many other things and feelings, he kept this one, too, to himself. And so the list of the things Jean said or did that hurt his feelings, along with the list of what subjects not to bring up with Jean, was getting long.

 

“Hey, Jean, it’s good to see you.” The smile on Sasha’s face widened when she opened the front door to their apartment, and Jean gave the girl an awkward hug. Sasha loved to hug and touch people, while for Jean it was uncomfortable and unnatural, but for Connie’s sake he stepped out of his comfort zone. He saw Sasha pretty harmless after he’d gotten over the initiate shock of Connie and her getting together, so he tried to behave decently around her. He knew what it meant to Connie, and if he wanted to, he _could_ be polite. After all, he knew how to act like a normal person; he did it at work all the time.

“The dinner’s just about ready”, Sasha informed Jean as he made it inside. He took off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. Connie was soon in front of him, pushing a glass of wine into his hand. He took it gratefully, and they clinked their glasses together.

“Glad you could make it.”

“Sure.” The only reason he had come was food, but Connie didn’t need to know that. He was not in the mood of talking with people, even if it was only Connie and Sasha. But he forced a smile on his face and figured he could leave after the food, plead to unfinished shit he had to do. “No, unfortunately it can’t wait until tomorrow. Yeah, it’s a shame I have to leave so soon, but we’ll do this again, yeah?” Connie would see through his act and let him have it later, but Sasha would eat it up and be grateful that he had at least made it for a little awhile. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan to Jean, and he emptied his wine in one, swift movement.

“So, what’s the big news, Sasha?” Jean asked, “Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant. And if you are, I’m so happy for you.” Connie made a cut-throat gesture with his index finger, but Sasha just giggled.

“No, I’m not, so just breathe. No, actually…” she raised her glass, “I got that promotion.” Jean wanted to ask _what promotion_ but realised Connie had probably told him about it a million times, and he hadn’t listened. _I really should start paying more attention_ , he thought idly, before smiling widely.

“Congrats, you deserve it.”

 

“We, um, actually have one more person joining us tonight. He texted that he’s gonna be a little late, but I told him not to worry. It’s not like we’re starving, right?” Connie filled Jean’s glass again, and the blonde noted the way his hand shook just the slightest. He was _nervous_ , which made Jean nervous. Why was he nervous?

“Who is it?” he asked bluntly. Connie gave a smile that was supposed to be reassuring, but it was far from that.

“Oh, just a friend, he, um… He’s Levi’s son, same age as us.”

“Who the hell is Levi?” He emptied his glass again, and again Connie was there to fill it up. They had moved to the living room, where they were lounging around on the expensive-looking couches. Sasha was working in the kitchen, humming to herself. The couches were horribly tacky to Jean, beige and big and fucking uncomfortable, the kind of sofas people bought because supposedly they told something about your personality. Yeah, that you’re _boring_ and have no taste in furniture.

“Levi, my boss. You know him, you met last New Year’s, remember?”

“Nah, I must’ve been drunk off my ass. So why’s his kid coming over?”

“Because he’s a friend.”

“Why’re you friends with your boss’s child? You trying to get a promotion or something? Y’know there _are_ easier ways to kiss ass, like bringing him donuts to work or something.” He was downing the wine at a good rate, and whenever his glass was empty, Connie filled it up. Jean was starting to feel like Connie was trying to get him drunk, and he was happy to comply.

“No, I’ve met him before I started working there, it was just a happy coincidence that, y’know, they’re related. Or not related per se, since he’s, like, adopted, but still.” Jean sneered.

“Aww, isn’t that nice. A happy coincidence, indeed.” Connie rolled his eyes at Jean’s comment, but didn’t reply. _Shit_ , Jean cursed under his breath. Now he would have to make conversation with some random loser. And as if on cue, the doorbell rang, and Connie got up and made it to the hall. He let the guy in, and Jean listened carefully as they exchanged pleasantries. The guy’s voice rang some bells in his mind, and as he was going through all the people he knew in his head, trying to connect the voice with a face, both Connie and the guy appeared in the living room.

“Jean, this is Eren. Eren, Jean.”

“Yo, what’s up?” Eren nodded his head, and Jean swallowed hard.

“Hi.”

 

After they had finished all the food (and the wine), Jean went out for a smoke. His head was spinning pleasantly, alcohol warming him from the inside. Eren joined him, but refused a cigarette when Jean offered one.

“Nah, man, I’ve stopped smoking.”

“You want a medal or something?” Jean mumbled and lighted his own. He took a long drag and let the sweet smoke fill his lungs. Eren snorted with laughter.

“So the dinner went well, considering.”

“Suppose.” Jean blew the smoke out into the cold air.

“I especially liked the part where they tried to pimp us together.” It was Jean’s time to laugh.

“Yeah, that was bloody awkward, man. It’s not really their forte.”

“Should we maybe tell them that we’ve already been there and done that?”

“No, definitely not”, Jean shook his head. He didn’t need Connie to know that, and he sure as hell didn’t need the guy asking him about it. Eren shrugged his shoulders.

“What are you gonna tell them tomorrow when they ask how things went after we left? ‘Cause I mean that’s what’s gonna happen, they’re gonna stuff us into the same cab and keep their fingers crossed. ” Jean rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help smiling. Yeah, that sounded about right.

“I’ll tell them that I took you home and fucked you good and proper.” Eren chuckled, but bit his lower lip as he did so. He eyed Jean for a long time without saying anything, and Jean raised his other eyebrow, smirking.

“You still seeing Mikasa?” The question caught Eren off guard, and he shrugged again.

“No. We realised that it wasn’t really our thing, I mean I love her, but she feels like a sister more like.”

“Huh.” Jean tapped the cigarette, ash falling on his worn-out Converses.

“Crazily enough we’ve gotten closer after we broke up.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah… So you seeing anyone?” Jean focused on the cigarette between his fingers, and took one last drag out of it. He threw it in the snow and shivered violently. He didn’t look at Eren, but felt the boy’s sharp eyes on him. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

“Nope.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another.

“You still stripping?”

“Yup.” The leather jacket Jean wore wasn’t exactly warm in the freezing night air, and he made a gesture with his head towards the door.

“Inside?”

“Sure.”

 

 _Beep-beep-beep_. The ear-splitting noise tore Jean to consciousness, no matter how hard he tried to fight it. He forced his eyes open, and since the noise didn’t seem to be stopping at its own, he reached for the bedside table. He silenced the alarm on his phone, and pulled his hand back under the covers quickly. Shit, the air felt _freezing_. He drew the blanket tighter around himself. There was a distant throbbing in the back of his head, behind his eyes, and he knew the hangover would hit him pretty soon. Fucking Connie. This was his fault and the three bottles of wine he had bought. Not to mention the whiskey, god, the whiskey.

“Don’t hog it, man.” Eren’s voice was groggy, and he scooted closer to Jean, sliding his hand around him. He pushed his legs between Jean’s, and wrapped himself around the blonde.

“Do you mind? Your boner’s pressing against my ass.”

“You know you like it.” Jean heard a grin on Eren’s voice, and made a low “eugh” as a response.

“I have a lecture to attend to and I need you outta here.”

“Just leave me here to sleep, I’ll be out before you come back”, Eren mumbled, his breath hot against the blonde’s neck. Jean grimaced.

“No, get up.” He shook himself free of Eren and got out of the bed. The coldness of the floor almost made him change his mind, but he quickly scooted his scattered clothes off the floor and made it to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, tried to tame his mess of a hair, failing, and quickly dressed in yesterday’s jeans and a hoodie. When he came out, Eren was sitting at the side of the bed, naked, his black hair even a wilder mess than Jean’s.

“Man, my head hurts”, he whined, rubbing his temples with his index and middle fingers, his elbows resting on his thighs. “Shouldn’t have drunk all that whiskey.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well arencha a ray of sunshine today.” Eren looked up just in time to see a bundle of clothes flying to him. They hit him in the face, and he yelped.

“Get dressed and get out, I’m already late.” That was a lie. Eren obeyed, although reluctantly.

“I don’t get it, man, you were all over me last night, and now you act like I ran over your dog or something”, Eren huffed, his voice momentarily muffled by the t-shirt he was pulling over his head.

“You done? I gotta get going in case you didn’t hear me.” Jean was standing next to the front door of his studio, hands crossed over his chest. Eren walked to him, got his jacket and left shoe.

“Where’s my other shoe?”

“It’s under the bed, now chop-chop.” Eren gave him an annoyed look, but Jean only stared at him blankly. The black-haired guy fished his shoe from under the bed and managed to put it on. When he was at the door, he turned to Jean and opened his mouth to say something, but Jean reached behind him, opened the door and pushed Eren out.

“We should…”

“No.” And he slammed the door in Eren’s face. But the relief was only temporary, because Eren soon knocked on the door.

“My phone…” his voice came through the door, and Jean opened it.

“I left it there…” he drifted off at the icy look Jean was giving him.

“Get it and get out.”

“Jesus, what is _up_ with you?” Eren walked in past him, and scanned the messy apartment with his eyes. He found the phone pushed into the cushions of the apartment’s small sofa. Jean was still standing by the door, not saying a word.

“So I’m guessing exchanging numbers is out of the question? I lost my old phone and all the contacts with it”, Eren tried.

“Good. And yeah, you guessed right.” Jean was getting more irritated by the minute, and the mere existence of Eren was now pushing all the wrong buttons.

“Fine”, Eren said, his voice hurt, and he didn’t even look at the blonde as he marched past him out of the place. Jean sighed and closed the door. _Asshole_.

 

The thing with him and Eren was complicated. They had met a couple of years ago, when Jean had been at work and Eren had walked in as a customer. Jean had immediately noticed him and the way he looked rather lost and out of place. Just like a guy who rarely goes to strip clubs. When the black-haired guy had locked eyes with him, he had put on his most seductive face, and walked slowly to the table where Eren and his friends were sitting. Eren never left his gaze, not until Jean was standing in front of him, his other hand on his hips. Then his eyes strayed, as he looked at the blonde from head to toe. Something got caught on his throat when Jean licked his lips and gave him a smile.

“Hello there. You look like you could use a lap dance”, Jean purred. Eren forced down the lump in his throat.

“Uh, I think I’m fine, I don’t really… I never come here, really.”

“Well then”, Jean leaned forward, “then you _definitely_ need a lap dance.”

“I… Does it cost something? Because really, I’m just here with friends, I have a girlfriend…” The smile on Jean’s face turned into a smirk.

“First one is on me”, he murmured, winking at the guy. Eren didn’t refuse as Jean sat on his lap and leaned his face very close to his, his hands on the back of the chair, the smug smile still dancing on his lips. Jean enjoyed the nervousness written all over the guy’s face, and made sure to give him his money’s worth. After it Eren’s face was flushed and he couldn’t look the blonde in the eye, nodding his head furiously when Jean asked if this was his first time.

“Well, I do hope you enjoyed it. Something tells me you did.” And with a wink he walked away. A couple of weeks after that Eren appeared to the club again, alone this time. He sat in the furthest corner he could find, and kept his eyes fixed on the beer in his hand. He wasn’t sure why he had come, but when he heard a familiar voice say _hello again_ , he remembered.

“Hi”, he replied.

“This time you’re gonna have to pay for it”, Jean crooned. Eren nodded shortly, and when Jean leaned closer, he recognised the familiar scent of his aftershave. He inhaled deeply.

“How’s your girlfriend?” Jean’s lips were mere inches away from his ear, and Eren shuddered.

“She’s… she’s, she’s fine.” Eren couldn’t see Jean’s face, or the way he was enjoying teasing the shorter guy.

“I’m glad to hear that.” And after that Eren came again a couple of weeks later, and again, until there was only a week in between his visits, and then it was just a couple of days. Sometimes Jean wasn’t working when he made his visit, and after those times he always left feeling empty, disappointed. This went on for a few months, Jean now expecting his visits, until one time he didn’t come for a whole week. Jean didn’t think of it too much, although he would’ve lied if he said he wasn’t curious. Then after one, relatively slow Friday after he had finished his shift and was standing outside, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth, he saw a familiar figure standing a little further away. He smiled at the person, and the person walked closer.

“I… I’m not sure what I’m doing here”, Eren started.

“Yeah?”

“You… you wanna go grab a beer or something?”

“Where have you been? I’ve missed you and your money.” Jean pouted, drawing a smile out of Eren.

“Sorry… I’ve been busy. But I’m here now.”

“So you are.” Jean lit his cigarette and inhaled the smoke. He offered Eren one, who took it gratefully.

“So how about that beer?” he asked, placing the cig between his lips. Jean held a lighter out for him, and he muttered a soft thanks.

“Nah, I have to get up early tomorrow.” Eren looked a little too disappointed.

“Oh, okay.”

“But I have a better idea.”

 

Eren never came to the strip club again. Instead he waited Jean outside the place when he knew the blonde would get off, and then they went to Jean’s place and fucked until the break of dawn. Jean liked the arrangement, because Eren felt guilty enough about cheating on his girlfriend that he never even suggested they met outside Jean’s apartment. He never stayed the night, and Jean didn’t have to worry about the guy getting too clingy. He’d text Eren an hour or two before he got home from work, and Eren was always there, waiting for him. They didn’t talk much, and that, too, suited Jean more than well. Their affair went on for a good six months, and all that time Jean told himself he was just having fun, that Eren was nothing more than a good fuck buddy. But his chest had started to ache a little every time Eren jumped out of the bed after the sex. He didn’t even give any reasons anymore; they both knew that he had to go, because after the ecstasy had worn out, there was nothing more left for Eren than guilt. And nowadays the guilt riddled Eren more than his lust for Jean.

“So I’m thinking, I have no work tomorrow, maybe you could come a little earlier”, Jean said carefully. Eren didn’t reply. He had his back to Jean as he pulled on his pants, and the aching in Jean’s chest deepened.

“Or, you know, whatever’s fine with you...”

“Look”, Eren interrupted him, “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore. I love Mikasa, and she knows. She knows about you. I can’t lose her. Sorry.” The blank expression on Jean’s face didn’t change, and Eren shrugged his shoulders awkwardly, running his hand through his dark hair.

“Look, she’s everything to me. And you… You’re just some guy I’ve been banging. Not that it hasn’t been _great_ , but between you and Mikasa… Well, she wins with flying colours.” No response.

“Alright, so you’re not gonna say anything. That’s fine, whatever. Have a good life, yeah?” And with that Eren put on his jacket and left Jean alone in his apartment. Jean sat on his bed for a long while, his back pressed against the wall, and he wondered absent-mindedly why it was suddenly so hard to breathe. Just a fuck buddy, right? He didn’t see the guy for over a year after that.

 

Jean suffered through the day, nausea hanging over him like a heavy cloud. He cursed Connie in his mind, and made a mental note to call the guy later to tell him how much he hated him. After the last class of the day, Jean collected his belongings from the desk, stuffed them in his bag and made it out of the class room along the other students. It was only a Monday and Jean already felt like hanging himself. He didn’t have work in the evening, and he had never been more grateful about it although his bank account looked so empty he wanted to cry. He was walking home when his phone rang. With numb fingers he fished it out of his pocket and checked the number. Completely strange to him, and he didn’t like to answer numbers he didn’t know. For a second he wondered if it could be Eren, and he wanted to throw his phone in the snow, but he knew Connie wouldn’t give out his number like that. He made a mental note to also tell the guy to never again try to fix him up with anyone. The phone kept on ringing, and against his normal behaviour, he answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, is this… Jean? _Jean?_ ” a low male voice replied at the other end.

“Jean. Who are you and what do you want?”

“You’re a stripper, right? Like a male stripper?”

“Well I sure as hell ain’t a female stripper if that’s what you’re asking.” The guy laughed at the other end.

“So, you do, like, birthday parties and stuff?”

“It depends. Where did you get my number?” Jean shuffled through his pocket and pulled out a cigarette with cold fingers. _Fuck,_ it was freezing.

“A friend who knows you gave it to me. Anyway, I have a job for you if you’re interested.”

“Which friend?” He lit the cigarette.

“Just a friend. So, are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Interested.”

“Again, it depends.”

“Alright so, we have this friend who has a birthday and we want to surprise him. And that’s why we need you.”

“Payment is up front, fully, the price is _not_ negotiable, and I need at least a week’s notice.” The other end fell silent for a long time, and Jean checked the screen of his phone to see if the call had somehow been cut off. When he took it back to his ear, he heard distant mumbling of at least two different people.

“Sorry, I’m here. Uh, we have a minor problem.” Jean didn’t say anything, waiting the caller to continue.

“His birthday is today.”

“No can do.” Even if he hadn’t been hangover as hell, it still would’ve been a pain in the ass to try and put something together in a couple of hours’ notice. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. The caller sighed.

“Please, you don’t have to do much, just… Go there and give him a lap dance and we’ll pay whatever you want us to pay. You don’t have to do anything else, seriously.” Jean thought about his bank account and cringed.

“Payment, up front.”

“Fucking _thank_ you. I’ll text you the address and the time, and someone will be there to pay you beforehand.” Jean ended the call.

 

It was a little past six when Jean made it to the given address. It was at the other side of the town and he was forced to take a taxi, the air getting colder and colder and freezing him through his two hoodies and a jacket. A guy in a red winter coat greeted him as he walked to him, extending his hand. Jean looked at the guy and kept his hands in his pockets.

“I assume you’re _Jean_ –”

“It’s Jean.”

“Sorry, Jean.” The guy extended his hand again, this time holding an envelope. Jean took it, counted the money quickly and nodded.

“It’s sixth floor, apartment 16.” Jean opened the door to the apartment building and shuddered at the warmness. There was no elevator, and Jean started at the stairs. Sixth floor, apartment 16. In front of the right door, he took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. A couple of painkillers had numbed down the pain in his head, although he still felt nauseous, but it was just a lap dance. He could do that. He rang the doorbell and turned his lips in a much practiced fake smile. It took a while before he heard rustling behind the door. The door opened, and he was greeted by a taller guy, who had freckles all over his tan face, and his dark, almost black, hair had been combed neatly to the side. He looked a little confused. Jean widened his smile.

“Hello, birthday boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Now we finally have Marco in the picture. Once again, comments, criticism, and pizza are welcome. I am not going to mention my [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com) this time.
> 
> Some things there will be explained later (I hope I remember to do that). But I wanted to post this on Marco's birthday (convenient, right?) so yeahH I don't know man I need to go to sleep now. Also, I'll give anyone a cookie who finds what's funny about Marco's apartment. I'm very cunning, I know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this like two days after the second chapter, but I wasn't sure if I liked it or not and just let it rot in my harddrive. I finally got around to decide that it'll have to do. Hope you like it ♥ Also ugh I know that art talk is clumsy as hell because I know nothing of art (but I do like Salvador Dali) so please forgive me.
> 
> Hear me [roar](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com).

“W-who are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” The freckled guy looked anything but happy to see Jean behind his door. Mostly just confused, but maybe a little disturbed, too. His eyes were red, as if he had been crying just minutes ago. Jean assumed the guy was either hangover or just drunk and shook it out of his mind.

“I’m your birthday present, kid. But don’t get any ideas, though, I’m just here to give you a lap dance of your life”, Jean winked. “But if you’re a good boy, I _might_ throw in a little extra…” The guy’s face turned bright red, and he looked down at his feet.

“ _Oh_. I don’t understand.” Jean let out a little laugh, but after realising the guy was _serious_ , he quietened and cleared his throat.

“Dude, I’m here to give you a lap dance, what’s there to understand. It _is_ your birthday, right? They told me apartment 16, and –”, he leaned to his right to check the number on the door, “— this looks like a 16 to me.” The guy looked up carefully. The blush had spread over his freckled face, all the way to his ears.

“It’s my birthday, yeah, but I don’t understand why you’re here. I mean, uh, I’m sorry. Do I know you? Or should I know you?” Jean sighed.

“Are you really that dense or is this some kinda foreplay? Because I told you, keep it in your pants, kid. I’m not here to fulfil any kinky fantasies you might have.” The guy’s eyes widened in panic, and he raised his hands in front of him, shaking them horrified.

“No, no, no, no, ah, I just…” Sweat was forming in his forehead, and Jean actually pitied the poor bastard.

“Relax. Look, your friends paid me to come ‘ere and give you a lap dance. Okay? So are you gonna lemme in or keep me standing in the hallway another fifteen minutes?” This was giving Jean a headache, or maybe the painkillers were wearing off, but he didn’t feel like smiling anymore, and he let his act fall. If this stupid bastard didn’t want a lap dance, fine, he had been paid already, made no difference to him.

“Why would my friends do that?” the guy squeaked, looking embarrassed.

“You asking me? They’re your damn friends. Look, I’ve no patience for this. Either let me in or call me a cab. And you’ll have to pay for it for wasting my time.” The guy looked apologetic now, and he opened the door wider.

“I’m sorry, really, I didn’t mean to be rude. Come in, please.” Jean slid in past the taller guy, and took off his jacket. He dropped it on the floor, along with his two hoodies. He had a black, well-fitted t-shirt with a low-cut neckline underneath. He had combed his hair back and emptied a bottle of hairspray on it to make it stay in place. His undercut had grown way too long, he had realised, he really would need to cut it the first chance he got.

“I’ve already been paid, so how about you sit down and relax, and let me do the rest? And again, no funky business. Boners are okay, welcome even, but no grabbing.” Jean had raised his finger in front of him, shaking it at the guy. “You wanna touch, you ask first. Also, you try _anything_ , I will drop you, alright? I know jujutsu, and I ain’t afraid to use it.” The guy looked embarrassed and rubbed his neck awkwardly.

“Um… I don’t know what to say.” Jean blinked.

“Ah, I get it. My friends… This is a prank. I’m sorry you came all the way here, but it’s a joke. They like to pull stuff like this. Again, I’m sorry you went through all this trouble.” Now it was Jean’s turn to feel a little embarrassed. He should have seen this coming, it wasn’t the first time he had been used as a prank. No wonder the guy looked so uncomfortable; Jean bet he wasn’t even gay.

“I see”, he replied shortly. “You’re still paying for the cab, though.” That seemed to relax the guy a little as he chuckled.

“I insist”, he smiled. “I’ll call it right away, but it will take some time before it gets here, so you can wait inside. It’s freezing outside.”

“You’re telling me. I froze my balls just walking to the freaking taxi.” The guy laughed, and Jean noted the dimples on his cheeks. It was only then he realised that they were alone at the apartment.

“So… it’s your birthday, where are your friends? They send you a male stripper and don’t even bother to come’n’see the embarrassing show?” The guy shrugged his shoulders.

“I told them I was busy, I wasn’t really in the mood to see anyone today.” Then Jean noticed the worn-out sweatpants, the t-shirt that had maybe once been white and the unmatched socks on the guy. He also had a couple of days’ stubble on his face, and when Jean took a closer look, he saw dark circles under his eyes. His hair, though, was neat and in order. How about that.

“Sucks to be you, then”, Jean smirked. The guy responded with a weak smile.

“I guess. I’m Marco, by the way”, he extended his hand, and this time Jean responded to the gesture. Marco’s handshake was firm and warm.

“Jean. Call me _Jean_ and I will slap you. Kapish? Unless that’s your thing, in which case I won’t.” Marco laughed his bubbly laugh and nodded.

“Fair enough.” A momentarily silence fell in between them, Marco examining his fingernails and Jean studying the taller guy. He wasn’t too bad looking, even in his dirty clothing. Definitely straight, but Jean had had straight guys before. It helped that he wasn’t exactly a manly guy, although he wasn’t really feminine, either. He had pretty features and he was slim and athletic, and since his face was still as smooth as when he was 12, he could easily go without shaving for days. He also had very neat eyebrows for a guy, and if you dressed him in a wig and a dress and put a little make-up on him, the most drunken guys would’ve easily taken him home after the last call. He had a very slick tongue, and he had practiced flirting a lot. The reason he had started studying psychology was because he was interested in the human mind and non-verbal communication. Body language was his specialty, and he knew just how to hold himself to message people different things. It was all so easy, and he got people eating from his hand in no time if he wanted to. Too bad he hated politics or else he would’ve made a great politician.

 

“So… You never called me the taxi”, Jean was the first to speak. Marco looked up from his fingers, and gasped.

“Oh right! I’m so sorry, I completely forgot…” Jean was leaning himself against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his left ankle resting on his right. He looked the guy with a smirk on his face.

“Maybe you changed your mind about the lap dance? And don’t worry, you wouldn’t be the first straight guy to enjoy it. I’m pretty good at it.” He licked his lips and raised his eyebrows suggestively. He enjoyed seeing the guy go all awkward on him.

“It’s not that, it’s just not my thing. I get embarrassed easily. I’m sure you’re really good at it, don’t take it personally…” Marco trailed off, picking his fingers nervously. There was a pink hue on his cheeks, and Jean laughed.

“Personally? Nah, man, it’s your loss anyway”, he shrugged. Marco smiled, relief flashing in his eyes, and he sucked his lower lip in his mouth.

“You… you want coffee or something, while we wait?” he stuttered anxiously. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, it wasn’t like there were strippers lining behind his door every day. Especially ones with such intense stare.

“Only if you’ve got brandy to go with it”, Jean smiled. The guy was a bit stupid, but Jean enjoyed this, and he wanted to see where it would lead. The pain in his head had subsided without him even noticing.

“No, sorry. I don’t really drink.” _Goddammit,_ Jean cursed.

“Wow. You must be really fun at parties.”

“Amazingly enough, not really. People don’t really like it when I remind them what they did when they were intoxicated”, Marco grinned. Jean scratched his head and rolled his eyes.

“Figures. No one likes people who think they’re better than them.” He didn’t think he sounded harsh, but the ashamed face on Marco made him rethink his words.

“I’m not saying _you_ do, but you know. Reminding people of their mistakes? Yeah, not fun.”

“It was a joke…” Marco mumbled uneasily, and he looked like a little kid after getting a slap on the wrist. _Goddammit_.

“Oh.” This time the silence was deafening. Jean wanted to slap himself for not realising it was a _joke_ , for krissake. He blamed it on the hangover, he wasn’t usually this clumsy and clueless around people. But then again, he didn’t usually chat this much with customers. And then he furrowed his brow; why _was_ he chatting with a customer, anyway? The guy didn’t want a lap dance, what was he still doing here?

“Well this is awkward”, Marco said, a little smile hanging on his lips. He still looked a little flustered.

“Yeah, how about you never try to joke again, ever? Yeah? I mean Jesus man, way to make an ass out of yourself”, Jean clicked his tongue and shook his head, letting out a long sigh. The guy looked mortified for a second, before melting into a smile.

“Oh, I get it, funny. You’re very funny, _Jean_.” Marco stuck his tongue out mischievously. Jean let his jaw drop and gasped in shock, making Marco giggle.

“You will pay for that”, he declared. “I shall _not_ slap you today, since that’s obviously what you’re yearning for.”

“Aww”, Marco whined. “You saw right through my act, I can’t believe it!”

“Yeah, you little perv, you were looking to get slapped werencha? You like that, doncha?” Marco laughed heartedly, and Jean tried to fight back a huge grin, but failed miserably. _Shit._ Why was this guy straight? Now that the hangover was letting him go of its grip, he was starting to feel rather horny. He wouldn’t mind tapping that freckled ass. Just bend him over the table and… _Yeah_. Neither the place nor the time. He shifted a little.

“Look, it’s been, eh, interesting, but I really gotta get going. You can still change your mind about the lap dance, though…”

“Well, actually… Since you’ve been paid already, would you mind horribly staying a little while? You don’t have to do anything, but it _is_ my birthday, after all, and I could use the company. Just a little while?” _Jesus_. The guy looked at Jean pleadingly, and it reminded him of a puppy. He _hated_ puppies. The blonde grimaced and ran his hand through his hair.

“You know, that’s not really what I do. Besides, you’ve been jabbering for your money’s worth already, so…”

“I have money”, Marco blurted. He looked a little horrified for being so blunt, and the little eyebrow raise Jean gave him didn’t help that, at all.

“So you’re telling me you want to pay me to keep you company? You do realise how pathetic that makes you?” Jean wasn’t sure why he was trying to turn down _easy money_ , but apparently he was. Yes, he would hate himself later when he would look into his wallet, but right now it seemed like the right thing to do. _Right thing? Since when do I give a fuck about the right thing?_ Marco looked down at his feet, again, and stroked his left arm with his right. He didn’t say anything for a while, and Jean forced himself to _not_ feel guilty.

“Did I hurt your feelings? I’m only asking so you’ll get it outta your system and I can go home”, he said monotonously. “I don’t befriend customers, alright?”

“Alright. I was just… Sorry, it was a stupid thing to ask.” He looked up at Jean.

“I’ll call the taxi now”, he continued softly, and walked past Jean to the living room to get his phone. _I am not going to budge, I am NOT going to budge._

“For fuck’s sake man, just gimme money and I’ll listen to you yap a while longer.” Jean ran both his hands through his hair, huffing in annoyance. Marco stopped in his place, but didn’t turn around. Jean stared at the back of his head, irritation bubbling in his veins. _This fucking guy_.

“You want the coffee now?” Marco offered, his back still turned to Jean.

“Make it strong”, he muttered in response. He couldn’t see the guy’s face and the wide smile spreading over it. He walked from the hallway to the living room and fell down on Marco’s couch. He sank into the cushions, and moaned in satisfaction.

“God _damn_ this is a comfortable sofa”, he mumbled, closing his eyes. He heard Marco snicker quietly as he made it to the kitchen. _The fucking guy_.

 

“So, _Marco_ , tell me. What does a person who pays a stripper to keep him company _on his fucking birthday_ want to talk about? The weather? Your secret fetishes? Your health problems? I mean you’re paying me for this, so make it count.” Jean took a long sip of the coffee, and noted, pleased, that it was really good coffee. It didn’t taste like that instant coffee shit he bought, only because he didn’t own a coffeemaker. Connie complained every chance he got about how much he drank coffee, and even more so about the fact that he drank instant coffee. He had even made a point to prove that in the long run instant coffee was more expensive than him just buying a coffeemaker and _real_ coffee.

“How about, what do you do? In addition to… This”, Marco made a gesture towards Jean.

“You mean keeping company to nerdy loners like yourself?” Marco chuckled.

“Well… Yeah, I guess.”

“How about no? How about you talk about yourself or whatever, I really am not the sharing kinda guy.” Marco made a pouty face.

“I’m really not that interesting… I study law, and that takes all my time nowadays.” Jean took a mouthful of his coffee. Man, he was _dying_ for a smoke.

“I, umm, like to jog, and I sometimes draw and paint.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what to tell you, honestly.”

“You have a girlfriend?” Jean asked. He didn’t really care, but figured if he asked the right questions, he wouldn’t have to listen to Marco talk about _jogging_ for the next hour or so. Marco shook his head. He swept the fallen hair off his face, and stroked it until he was sure it stayed in place.

“No, I don’t… And um, you know, earlier the thing you said about straight guys? Ah, I’m not exactly straight. It’s just that… Not many of my friends know I’m not, and I like to keep it that way.” Jean leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs, the coffee mug still in his hands. _Now_ this was getting interesting. He felt a little stupid that his gaydar had failed him, but blamed that, too, on the hangover.

“Oh yeah? How come?” he asked curiously.

“I just don’t think they would understand. They’re… rather small-minded at times. I don’t mean to speak ill of them, but they were raised a certain way. Like me.”

“And what is that way?”

“To think that homosexuality is wrong.” Jean emptied the rest of his coffee.

“Your parents must be proud of you then, you being a gay and all.” Marco sneered.

“They don’t know”, he said blankly.

“So is it, like, a religious thing? Or are they just ignorant?” Marco looked down at his hands. He was sitting at the opposite of Jean, in a little armchair, and there was a glass table in between them. Jean didn’t want to set his cup down on it, afraid he might break the table. He didn’t understand glass tables, anyway, they seemed pointlessly fragile for furniture. After what seemed like a really long time to not answer a question, Jean cleared his throat.

“So I’m guessing you don’t wanna talk about it. It’s cool. Just how about you man up, and next time tell me to piss off if I hit a sore spot? Because I’m not a mind-reader, unfortunately. Or fortunately, since I don’t know if I’d want to hear what people are thinking constantly, y’know?”

“But what if you could read their thoughts when you wanted to and other times you wouldn’t hear them at all? Like when reading a book?” Marco looked up from his hands, and Jean pretended to ponder it for a moment, before shrugging. Marco gave a little smile.

“Sorry, it’s just… Yeah, I don’t want to talk about it. But I don’t mind you asking, it’s just that you sound like it’s not a big deal. I’m guessing your parents are more open-minded about things, then.” Jean let out a loud _ha_.

“As if, man, as fucking if.” He rolled his eyes and snorted.

“Oh?” Marco asked, surprised. Jean shook his head.

“Nah, we’re not getting into that. How about a change of subject. So, you’re gay. You have a boyfriend then? That’s why you refuse a lap dance from the gorgeous being that is I?” Marco rubbed his neck and chuckled.

“No, not anymore I don’t.”

“You wanna talk about that, then? But I must warn you, if I see tears, I am outta here.” Marco smiled at him warmly.

“No tears, I promise. And, well, not much to say. It got too hard for him because I couldn’t be open about my sexuality... I can’t blame him, who would want to sneak behind backs all their lives? So yeah. We were together for six months, he left me three days ago. Just in time for my birthday.” The freckled guy swallowed, and worried his lower lip. He eyed the table in between them, and saw Jean rotating the empty cup in his hands.

“He sounds lovely”, the blonde sneered.

“It wasn’t his fault, we had been discussing it for a long while already… It was the last straw, I suppose.”

“What was?” Another long silence. Marco scratched his arm and took a deep breath.

“He, umm, he proposed to me.”

“And just as I thought this couldn’t get any worse, it did! So he thought by proposing you all your problems would go away?” Jean was still playing with the cup. Marco stared at the way he kept rotating it with his long, skilful fingers, and for some reason it soothed him, just a little.

“No, not really. He just really loved me. He even urged we moved away from here after I graduate. Somewhere we could just _be_ and no one would have known us.” Marco shrugged his shoulders, defeat visible in his eyes. Jean was just about to say something snide, but the way Marco’s shoulders were hunched and his brow was furrowed made him reconsider it. Maybe he would let it be, just once. Instead, he mustered up all the sympathy he could.

“I’m sorry, man.” Marco looked at him, his dark eyes glistening. He smiled softly.

“Thanks, Jean. It means a lot.” He wiped the corner of his eye. No tears he had promised.

“I guess we… I guess we were a little naïve. I know I was. But I guess it happens when you’re in love.”

“Wouldn’t know, never been”, Jean said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh? Well, it’s horribly overrated, anyway. It’s not like you’re missing out on anything”, Marco said. Jean knew he was lying, but for some reason he didn’t mind. The guy meant well, Jean figured, although his words resembled a whole lot of pity. Jean let it slide, just this once. Besides, he had chosen his way of living, he had no regrets. Well, maybe a few, but who didn’t? He sighed, and got finally sick of the mug in his hands. He rested it on the table, and it made a little clinking sound.

“Do _you_ have a boyfriend, then?” Jean hummed, contemplating.

“Yeah. A different one every night, though”, he smacked his lips. “I get bored easily.” Marco cleared his throat and nodded slowly.

“That’s… Okay.”

“So nope, I don’t. I don’t do relationships. I can’t stand it when people lose their own identity in relationships and they practically melt into one with their boyfriends and girlfriends. And then they can’t do nothing without the other person being always there with them. I could never even get a pet because the thought of some living thing clinging onto me on its every waking moment gives me the creeps.” Jean shuddered, as if to make a point. Marco nodded, furrowing his brow.

“I don’t see it that way, to be honest. Sure, when you’re in love, you want to spend as much time with the other person as possible, but I wouldn’t say you _lose_ your own identity.”

“Yeah, well, I would. I can’t stand couples. Like, I _really_ can’t fucking stand them.” Jean didn’t even realise how bitter his words sounded, and Marco politely ignored the tone of his comment. This blonde guy sitting on his couch was a bit of a mess, but he didn’t mind. Jean was the most interesting thing to happen to him in a really long time. He had never met a person who was so honest and blunt, although a little coarse. And that _stare_ ; his eyes never left Marco’s, as if he was trying to challenge him. Marco couldn’t look too long, because he blushed easily, and he felt like those amber eyes saw straight through him, all the way to the core of his being.

“Fair enough, I suppose. But I would like to point out, that _I_ was never like that”, Marco smiled.

“Tsh. I bet you’re exactly like that. You look like a person who’s looking to fall in love just so you don’t have to be alone, because being alone is like not existing to your kinda people.” Jean had no idea of the effect his words had on Marco, who tried his best to conceal it in his face. The comment shot through him like an arrow, and he gritted his teeth together. He didn’t want the blonde to know just how _right_ he was, because he didn’t want to come off as pathetic. Jean wasn’t looking at him now, he was eyeing the painting hung on the wall behind Marco. It portrayed a basket full of fruits, something so unoriginal it made Jean sneer. The lines were a little hesitant and wobbly, as if the painter hadn’t been sure what she or he wanted to do with them.

“Seriously? What is that and how much did you pay for it?” Jean nodded his head towards the painting, and Marco turned his head to look at it.

“Nothing. I painted it.”

“And I mean it’s _really_ good”, Jean hummed, nodding his head. Marco uttered a laughter.

“Like I said, I like to paint sometimes. I know it’s not exactly Van Gogh or Monet, but I do it just for fun, for myself. I don’t mind if people don’t like it”, he shrugged his shoulders. Jean took a deep breath and blew the air out slowly.

“Sorry, man, I like my art a bit more provocative. Not that it’s not well-painted, I can definitely see you were inspired by Van Gogh, but it’s a bit bland. I like Salvador Dali and Frida Kahlo, myself.” Marco’s eyes widened.

“Did you just… You didn’t just… You like art?” Jean wrinkled his nose.

“What? You think I’m _stupid_ because I’m a stripper? Shit, even the dumbest motherfuckers know who Van Gogh is. But when you mention names like Paul Cézanne or Francisco de Goya, it’s a whole another story.” Marco looked at Jean as if he had never seen him before.

“I can’t believe you know who they are! And by the way, Kahlo is my absolute _favourite_ , I adore her.”

“I bet you listen to stuff like Edith Piaf, you nerd”, Jean grinned.

“I do! I love her!” Jean laughed, and Marco joined him.

“I don’t know _that_ much of art but I know what I like and what I don’t. If I hadn’t chosen to study psychology, I would’ve gone for fine arts.” Marco looked so impressed that Jean felt a little sting of pride in his chest.

“So how come you chose psychology, then?” Marco asked. He was leaning forward, and he looked so excited to Jean. He shrugged.

“I dunno, I’m interested in the human mind, mental illnesses and all that crap.”

“Are you going to be a psychologist or something?”

“Nah, my head’s way too chaotic to deal with other people’s shit. I just… I don’t know, I haven’t really decided what I want to be. Not a stripper for the rest of my life, that’s for sure.” He fell silent and examined the painting on the wall once more. Marco just stared at him silently, too overwhelmed by the turn the conversation had taken. The edge in Jean’s voice had disappeared, and his features had softened. He looked friendlier, and Marco smiled to himself. He studied the blonde’s face in detail, and found himself weirdly drawn to it. He was attractive, Marco gave him that. And he knew exactly that guys like him never gave guys like Marco second thoughts.

 

They talked some more after that, and when Jean finally checked the time, it was well past eight.

“Shit, two hours? Yeah, I really need to get going.” He stood up and stretched his arms, yawning. Marco stood up too and smoothed his hair with his other hand.

“It was nice talking with you”, he said awkwardly. _Maybe you should stay longer_ , was what he didn’t say out loud. He felt incredibly out of place, and he wanted to say _something_. Anything. Jean shrugged.

“Was it worth the money?” He gave the brunette a self-satisfied smile. Marco chuckled.

“Yes, I’m very pleased”, he responded. They stood in place for a while, Jean staring at Marco and Marco staring at the table in between them. _Say something_ , his mind was yelling at him.

“Good. That’s good. I’m just gonna… Y’know”, Jean pointed to the direction of the front door and clapped his hands together. “Yeah.” He paced to the hallway and picked his clothes from the floor. Marco traced behind him, still screaming at himself mentally. He watched as Jean packed himself in the two hoodies and the leather jacket, and stuffed his feet into his shoes. When he was done, he turned to face Marco.

“See ya around.” He gave a smile, and Marco felt panic twisting in his guts.

“Speaking of which… Uh”, he swallowed the rest of the sentence, not being able to continue. _Just do it, just DO it_.

“Speaking of what?” Jean raised his eyebrows.

“Can I have your number?” There, he said it, and immediately after that he wanted to turn invisible. His cheeks flamed with embarrassment and the way Jean was staring at him, not even blinking, made it all so much worse. Jean drew a long breath between his teeth.

“I told you, I don’t befriend customers.” He sounded like he was _almost_ sorry, or so Marco wanted to believe. And he desperately hung onto that thought.

“What if I ask it as a customer? In case I ever, ah”, he rubbed his neck, “n-need your services?” He felt so small under Jean’s incessant gaze. The blonde contemplated, worrying his lower lip. Marco waited patiently, not being able to look the guy in the eyes. Finally Jean sighed.

“I…Ugh. In one condition.”

“Anything”, Marco didn’t mean to sound so eager but he did, and it was too late to turn back now.

“You lemme give you that lap dance one day.” His eyes flashed devilishly. Marco whimpered.

“O-okay, fine.”

“And you’ll keep paying me.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll set the rules, and you follow them or get fucked, alright? I’m not your friend, just keep it in mind.”

“I will, I promise.”

“And I’m not gonna fuck you for money, so don’t even ask. You never call me, ever. You text me the time you want me here, and if I can make it, I’ll make it. If I can’t, I won’t. You ever call me, you never hear from me again.” Marco shook his head.

“N-no, of course not. I, ah, just liked talking with you. Anything you say is the law, I promise”, Marco agreed, nodding his head sheepishly. Jean’s face had hardened again, and he wasn’t smiling.

“Good. Just making sure we’re on the same page.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened the screen. He shuffled around for a second before giving the phone to Marco. The freckled guy took the phone carefully and typed in his number. He hit ring, and waited until he heard the muffled ringtone of his phone from somewhere in the apartment. Then he returned it to Jean, who was watching Marco’s every move carefully. The phone disappeared back into his pocket, and he opened the front door and let himself out.

“Oh, and Marco”, he stopped in his tracks, peeking his head in. Marco felt a little humiliated, but smiled bravely at the guy.

“Yeah?”

“Happy birthday.” And Jean closed the door behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /rambling/ Whatever happens, at least this chapter is done. Writing this really sucked the life out of me, because I've stayed up on so many nights until four am writing, ahhhh. I don't even know if I like this or not and I should wait until tomorrow to read through it again and then post it, but I'm impatient. It's almost 2 am and I am exhausted, unable to see anything anymore, so feel free to point out any errors I might have missed. /rambling/
> 
> This is the longest chapter so far, almost 20 pages.

Jean didn’t hear from Marco for weeks. He didn’t pay too much attention to it, drawing his own conclusions how the guy had probably chickened out or realised just how pathetic the whole deal was. Every now and then, maybe when he was at a lecture, or walking home in the middle of the night after a work shift, he would remember the brunette, though. They were brief, passing moments, like his voice sounding in his ears or the image of his lips turning into a smile. Some nights he was back at Marco’s apartment, only he wasn’t really there: Marco didn’t see him, he was deep in his thoughts or painting or just watching the television and Jean followed the scene from afar. He’d watch the guy bite his nails disgustingly short, or get frustrated with a piece he was painting and throw it aside. Jean would wake up at three am to those dreams and stay awake for the rest of the night. He had started to feel unusually restless, and at some nights he couldn’t sleep at all. He had started to smoke more than he normally did, and at nights when he didn’t want to freeze to death in the horribly cold night air, he smoked inside. He knew the landlady would go nuts if she knew, but he hung himself almost completely outside his window whenever he lit a cigarette, hoping the smell wouldn’t travel to neighbours’ apartments. He couldn’t get any pleasure out of the cigarettes, though, and the odd, uneasy feeling that had nested itself in his gut had started to spread. It felt like something big, something bad was going to happen, but he didn’t yet know what. He knew the feeling, he had experienced it before, but for some reason he couldn’t remember when or why. He couldn’t put it into words, and he closed himself in his apartment, muting his phone and watching it as the battery drained, until it ran out completely. In addition to avoiding everyone, he had started to avoid even Connie. Everyone else’s calls he blocked right away, but whenever Connie called, he hesitated. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to talk to him; it was more of that he couldn’t bring himself to answer him. He was afraid Connie would be able to tell that something weird was going on, and he was afraid the guy would know better than Jean did himself what it was. Sometimes it felt to Jean like Connie had a sixth sense, and he was able to hear just from Jean’s voice that something wasn’t right. The worst part was that he usually knew what the problem was or what it was related to even though Jean always furiously denied everything. Jean didn’t admit it to himself, but sometimes it seemed like Connie knew so much more of him than he had come to realise. He tried so hard to keep up his appearances, but Connie saw through every act he pulled. And now, seeing Connie’s name once again on the screen of his phone, his battery halfway gone, the device vibrating silently, he felt guilty. He hadn’t talked to the guy after one, stupid phone call, where he had made Connie swore never to try and pair him up with anyone again.

 

“Aww, you didn’t like Eren? I thought you got along pretty well”, the guy snickered.

“I hate you Connie, I hate you and I hate your guts, you intolerable bastard. And I fucking hate Eren, too”, Jean snarled. The remark only made Connie giggle louder.

“Come on, what happened after you left? From where I was standing you seemed like you enjoyed yourself.” Connie couldn’t hide the childish excitement in his voice, and he was sure Jean was just pulling his usual, saying something but meaning the opposite. Jean snorted.

“If you like him so much, why don’t _you_ go ahead and date him.”

“Come on, _tell me_! We’re dying to know.”

“I took him home and fucked him good and proper, you happy now?” Jean blurted. He hated the fact that the conversation was going exactly as Eren had predicted. The line fell silent for a second or two, before Connie cleared his throat.

“Sasha says hi, by the way, remind me to never put you on the speaker again”, Connie sighed. Jean let out a laugh.

“You asked for it, man. Besides, the guy’s an asshole, and I was wasted. Thanks for that, too, by the way, I really enjoyed the next morning’s early wake up”, Jean muttered.

“Well for _that_ I’m sorry, but I figured since you drink so much anyway –”

“ _Hey_ , hey, I don’t drink _that_ much –”

“—it wouldn’t make a difference. Besides, I didn’t _force_ you to drink, you chose to empty your glass all by your sweet self. I was only being a good host.” There was a hint of mockery and a hint of self-satisfaction in Connie’s voice, and it made Jean cringe to his phone.

“Yeah, whatever man, I still hate you. If you ever try to set me up with someone again, I will set your house on fire. And steal your first-born.”

“And what exactly would you do with my first-born? Seeing how you hate kids with such passion, like any mature adult would…”

“Har har. I’d sell it to scientists who could test all kinds of shit on him. Yeah, so think about _that_.” Jean heard Connie laugh heartedly, before he hung up and placed the phone on his nightstand.

 

The phone rang for a good while, before Connie gave up, and the light on the screen went down. Jean felt a painful sting in his chest. Whenever Connie ended the unanswered calls, Jean felt like a little part of him was giving up on Jean, like every time he didn’t pick up the phone, something inside of Connie died and he tried a little less next time. He told himself again and again it wasn’t like that, Connie wasn’t going anywhere and he knew Jean; he knew how he sometimes secluded himself from the world and needed to be alone. But the horrible, nagging voice located in the back of his head wouldn’t leave him alone. It painted a grim picture where Connie one day gave up entirely and never called him again. It scared Jean, it scared him so much the fear paralyzed him, ate him alive from inside, but still he couldn’t pick up the phone. He just couldn’t. If anyone had asked why, he wouldn’t have been able to tell. There was no rational reason, there was just the cold anxiety that had Jean pinned on the bed, his head buried under his pillow. It would all pass, eventually; Jean knew that, it always had. There was never a clear trigger that caused his unsocial spells, not that he knew anyway. He figured the stress and the sleepless nights had taken over the best of him, and he would just need to _sleep_ a good night’s sleep, and everything would be better. He had already skipped four days’ worth of lectures and texted a colleague to take over his shifts. He couldn’t afford it financially, not really, but the thought of leaving the safety of the four walls surrounding him felt unbearable. No, he wasn’t going outside, maybe tomorrow, or maybe never. He assured himself that it was alright, that the world wouldn’t stop spinning around even if he took a break from it, just for a while.

 

The thoughts in his head, spiralling out of control, came to a halt when he heard a loud knock on his door. He had ripped the doorbell off because he couldn’t stand the noise, but had come to realise he hated the sound of knocking even more. He lifted the pillow off his face and waited, holding his breath. Sure enough, after a little while there was another series of loud knocks and in addition to it, muffled voices. Jean laid still, the sound of his heartbeat filling the silence. For a while it was quiet, but whoever was behind the door was relentless. They knocked again, this time with more force, and then his mail slot was pushed open.

“I know you’re in there Jean, open this door.” It was Ymir, her husky voice startling Jean. He hadn’t talked to her for months, not after an incident that had made him cut off all contact with the two girls. The memory of it still made him wince.

“Please open, Jean.” This time it was Christa. Hearing her voice Jean realised how much he had missed her. The feeling was only temporary, but it got him moving. He forced himself to sit up at the edge of his bed, his head spinning a little. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, waiting for the world to settle down and his hazy vision clearing. Then he stumbled up, and shambled to the door.

“I can hear you in there, open the—” Jean opened the door as requested, and was greeted by Ymir almost falling over him. She had been leaning on his door, positive the guy wouldn’t even open it. He blinked, taking a step back, as Ymir fought for balance. Christa’s face drew into an enormous smile as she leaped forward from behind Ymir. She grabbed her arms around Jean, ignoring his grunts, and squeezed him tightly.

“I _missed_ you!” she squealed, swaying them both from left to right. The faint smell of her perfume hit Jean, and he inhaled it. It gave him pleasant flashbacks that also awoke a familiar pain in his chest. Right then and there he couldn’t remember what it was that had happened that had made him push them out of his life. Right then and there he was glad he didn’t remember.

“You”, Ymir boomed, as she spread her hands and pulled both Jean and Christa in for a hug, burying Jean’s face against her chest, “good sir, are in big trouble.” Jean didn’t reply, just stayed still as they stood in place, both girls tangled around him. Ymir smelled a little sweaty, but Jean didn’t mind. It was a familiar scent and made him feel a little better. Christa’s smothered voice came somewhere from between the three of them, as she begged to be released. Ymir let go of them, and Christa unwrapped herself from around Jean. Then they stared each other awkwardly for some time, Jean completely oblivious to the fact that he looked like shit, having showered four days ago, still wearing the same clothes he had pulled on back then. Ymir was kind enough to point it out for him.

“You look like crap, no need to get all dressed up for us.”

“Oh. Right. I probably smell real good, too”, Jean laughed weakly. Christa smiled sympathetically.

“It doesn’t matter, Jean, we’re just so glad to see you!” She elbowed her girlfriend, and Ymir let out an agreeing grunt.

“Yeah, so you want to enlighten us about your sudden disappearance?” she crossed her strong arms across her chest, and cocked her head to the side. Her eyes narrowed, and Jean shrunk at the expression. He had gotten scared, that was what had happened, but he couldn’t say that. His mind went suddenly completely blank, and under the girls’ stare he felt really small and powerless.

“I, uh… It’s a long story, and I’d really appreciate if you could, you know, just let it be.” His sheepish voice matched his mood, and he shrugged hastily. He couldn’t lift his gaze to meet theirs, and instead he concentrated on the hem of his hoodie, tugging it awkwardly. He noticed a large smudge on it, and realised he hadn’t washed it for a really long time. He didn’t see Christa give a stern look to Ymir, who held back a long sigh.

“Whatever you want is fine with us. You’ll talk about it if you wanna talk about it. But now”, Christa opened her bag and yanked out a bottle, “tequila!” Ymir clapped her hands together and Jean mustered up a small smile. Indeed, he had missed these two.

 

Fifteen minutes later the trio was located in Jean’s incredibly small and cramped bathroom. Jean was sitting on an uncomfortable stool, his head in Ymir’s big hands. She was holding it still with one and the other was expertly gliding an electric razor around his head. She hummed as she did, tilting his head back and forth, making sure she only shaved the undercut.

“I swear Ymir, if I’m bald after this, I’m shaving your head for revenge”, Jean grunted, and Ymir pushed his head forward with an abrupt movement.

“Shh, I can’t concentrate if you keep whining”, she replied, the razor buzzing just above his ear. She travelled it to his neck, and let go of his head. She clicked the razor off and let out a loud _ta-da_ , spreading her hands. Christa giggled. Jean rubbed his neck and felt his hair carefully.

“You’re not bald, relax”, Ymir sighed. She swept some of the hair off Jean’s shoulders, and pushed him up.

“Take a look, it’s good as new”, she ordered. Christa was sitting on Jean’s washing machine, which hadn’t been working for two years. She was holding the bottle of tequila, and as Jean cautiously peeked in the mirror above the sink, next to the washing machine, she extended it to him.

“It looks good”, she said joyfully. Jean took the bottle and downed a long gulp, shuddering at the strong taste. He examined himself in the mirror and shrugged.

“It’s fine, thanks”, he uttered. He ran his hand through the longer portion of his hair, and Ymir reached to shuffle it. Jean huffed and pushed her hand away.

“You need to do something about the root growth, though”, she grinned. She gave him a push on the shoulder, and grabbed the tequila from his hand. They slouched from the bathroom to the messy living room, and for once in Jean’s life he actually felt embarrassed about the disorder. There were dirty clothes everywhere, dirty dishes on every possible surface. He hadn’t touched a vacuum cleaner for over a month, and he wasn’t sure if it even worked anymore. Ymir didn’t mind, she just grabbed a pile of clothes from the couch and threw them on the bed nearby, before throwing herself down on the sofa, sighing comfortably. Christa on the other hand started collecting the plates and the cups and hurried them to the kitchen.

“She better not start doing the dishes”, Ymir chuckled, and took the bottle to her lips. She patted the seat next to her, raising an eyebrow to Jean. He sat down obediently, and followed Ymir’s example when she passed him the bottle. They sat in silence for a good while, downing the alcohol, Jean already feeling a soft buzz circling in his head. He was a lightweight when it came to alcohol, and he hadn’t really eaten anything for the past few days. As if to verify this, his stomach grumbled.

“I guess we’re ordering pizza, then.” Ymir pulled her phone out of her jeans’ pocket and dialled a familiar number. Jean was grateful for the way Ymir let him just be, sit in silence, not trying to force him to talk.

“You’d think I would never want to eat at Erwin’s after working there for so goddamn long, but I can’t help it, the bastard makes the best pizzas”, Ymir mused, as she placed the phone on her ear, “even if it _was_ one helluva battle to get him to have a vegan option on the menu.”

 

“No _fucking_ way! There’s _no_ way I’ll believe that. I’m calling bullshit on you, Kirschtein.” They clinked their glasses together; the glasses that Christa had, despite Jean’s and Ymir’s protests, washed and dried. If it had only been the three glasses, but she had managed to clean every cup, plate, fork and knife she found lying around. Jean didn’t own too many, but enough to occupy Christa for a good fifteen minutes.

“I _swear_ it’s true, the guy fucking pissed himself! You should’ve seen it, I’m telling ya, if I had been anywhere _near_ him that moment, I woulda fucking quit my job then and there.” They emptied the glasses, Jean squinting his eyes at the taste, Ymir banging her fist on the floor they were sitting on, and Christa shook her head.

“That is nasty”, she croaked, and both Jean and Ymir laughed.

“But seriously, the guy _pissed_ himself?”

“That’s what I said”, Jean nodded, “I’ve seen a lotta shit at work but that… That was a first of its kind.” Ymir shook her head in disbelief, all the while pouring more tequila on their empty glasses. She screwed the cork shut and placed the bottle on the floor. She leaned back to rest her back on the couch, and raised the glass.

“Well, I’ll drink to that. To customers pissing themselves.”

“Hear hear”, Jean grinned, holding his own glass in the air. He had straightened his legs in front of him, the soles of his feet pressed flat against the couch, and he was resting on his arm placed behind him. Christa was sitting next to him with her legs crossed, her hands holding the glass in her lap. She raised it too, although a little hesitantly, and they emptied the contents swiftly. Jean let out a stifled cough, and Ymir slapped his feet placed next to her, smirking.

“I am _not_ holding your hair this time so you better keep it down.”

“You never held my hair”, Jean croaked, shuddering at the aftertaste. Even after the fifth or sixth shot – he had lost count – the taste was still as vile as ever. Ymir snorted.

“You might not remember, but without me you would’ve fallen head first into the toilet.” She winked at him, and Christa snickered.

“You’re right, I don’t remember”, he said cheekily. He lied down on his back and let out a long sigh. The world was spinning around him and he rather enjoyed it. Ymir clicked her tongue and shook her head.

“There aren’t many things you remember, are there Kirschtein?” The seemingly harmless comment left an uneasy feeling at the back of Jean’s head. He wasn’t sure what Ymir meant by it, but he didn’t say anything, staring at the cracked ceiling. Ymir said something to Christa who laughed heartedly before replying, but Jean wasn’t listening anymore. A scene from three months back was playing in his head, no matter how hard he tried to make it stop.

 

It was December, after Christmas. Jean detested the pretentious, commercial holiday, and he made everyone _swear_ they wouldn’t try to get him any presents or make him listen to Christmas carols whenever he was anywhere near. He spent the Christmas Eve with Connie and Sasha, and they were kind enough to comply with his demands. No presents, no music, no Christmas sweaters. After all, it was just one day, and even though Jean never said anything, Connie knew he was grateful he didn’t have to spend the night alone in his small apartment. Even though he kept complaining how he hated socialising for too long, Connie _knew_ spending time with him and Sasha made Jean hate Christmas a little less. Even if it was just a little, it was something. Sasha cooked the whole previous day and it paid off, everyone falling into a food induced coma after the Christmas dinner. She wouldn’t listen to Jean weakly refusing to take any left-overs, and he lived off of them for a week straight. He thanked them both awkwardly, always awkwardly, like it wouldn’t come natural to him, and Connie always shushed him, telling him it was _fine_. He was like family, after all. No, he _was_ family. And Jean would smile at it, the smile genuine on his lips, and those moments were the reason Connie put up with so much with Jean. Seeing him happy, it was all worth it. He had seen Jean sad for most of his life, and he had sworn to take care of the guy as long as he needed to be taken care of. And when Jean walked home late at that night, the dim streetlights guiding his way through the thick snowfall, he felt happy. The air around him was freezing, his breath steaming as it escaped his lips into the night, but he was warm.

 

When he got home, he messaged Ymir, who appeared behind his door half an hour later with Christa and three bottles of red wine. That was when it had happened. All was well, they drank until they were wasted off their minds, and silencing Jean’s cries of refusal, they played spin the bottle with the first emptied bottle. All was well, until Jean forgot something important: he didn’t talk about his past to people. No, to people around him there was nothing beyond the moment they had met Jean. They didn’t need to know anything that had happened before that, and that was how Jean was able to ever have people in his life he could call friends. Ymir and Christa already knew some things about him he had rather they didn’t, like what he did for work. He had been careless and slipped it in a drunken haze, but they had shrugged it off, told him they couldn’t care less what he did.

“At least you don’t deliver pizzas anymore”, Ymir had joked, and Jean had forced himself to not freak out over the slip. He was careful when it came to talking about personal matters, even if he did trust Ymir and Christa. Hell, rather them than Connie, because these two were lower class like him. Connie was so much better and everything Jean was not, and he could never know just how low Jean had to go sometimes. Not only would he have worried, he would have tried to talk Jean into doing something else, like _delivering pizzas_ , and Jean would’ve felt like shit. Christa had it better than him and Ymir, with rich parents and all, but her tiny frame was so full of fire and passion that she fit right in. She didn’t take her parents money, working full-time herself, but still the subject was a bit of a sore spot. Jean didn’t want to embarrass the girl by asking about it, and Christa didn’t want to make her friends feel like she was somehow better than them because she had never struggled financially. Money was a difficult issue to all of them, but unlike with Jean and Connie and the complexities between them, they could joke about it from time to time.

 

Ymir spun the bottle. They were halfway drinking through the third, and Jean was seeing things double by now. Everything was swimming in his vision, and he couldn’t focus his gaze anymore. Nevertheless, he was grinning like an idiot, and when Ymir slurred something incoherent, he giggled.

“I ‘ave no idea what you just said”, he spoke, his tongue feeling too big in his mouth. He narrowed his eyes, trying to stop Ymir moving so fast, and the tan girl waved her hand around.

“Shhh, I’m thinking”, she mumbled. Christa had spread out in Jean’s bed, over the scattered clothes, her mouth hanging open, a pool of drool absorbing into the mattress under her. She was fast asleep, snoring lightly, still fully dressed. Her arm was hanging over the edge of the bed, and somehow she had managed to get tangled up with the blanket so that it was partially under her, partially over her, and partially hanging out of the bed. It had to be over six in the morning, but neither Jean nor Ymir cared or noticed the way time had fled.

“You… Eugh, I can’t think of anything. Did I ask about your sex life already?” Ymir stammered with her words, tilting her head to side. Jean mused for a moment.

“Yes, like three times in a row now”, he uttered.

“Well how about your family?”

“Why wouldya wanna know about my family’s sex life?”

“No I mean your family… You never talk about them.” In a blink of an eye the

harmless sex-talk took a serious turn. Somewhere deep in Jean’s mind warning signs were flashing red, but his drunken self was colour-blind and didn’t notice them. There were many things they never talked about, but for some reason his _family_ was the one Ymir had decided to choose.

“I don’t have nothing to do with them’s why”, he shrugged. He closed his eyes, but as it only intensified the spinning, he forced them back open. He didn’t see the expression on Ymir’s face, but he picked up her grave tone when she spoke next.

“Why?” She sounded concerned, curious and surprised all at the same time. Jean only concentrated on the concerned one, and he couldn’t understand why Ymir would feel concern. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Ymir worried about _anything_.

“Why? Because”, he shrugged again.

“Because?” This time she sounded more demanding. She sounded almost hostile, the way she did when she really wanted to know something, and she was leaning forward now, completely still. Jean shook his head.

“Because”, he slurred, “because my mom blames it all on me.”

“What all?”

“All that happened. With John, and me, and you know. Him. They don’t say his name anymore, but I say fuck that.”

“Whose name?”

“His. Or John’s. Or maybe they do now, I wouldn’t know.” He had begun to feel sick. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the subject, he didn’t know, but he felt so nauseous.

“Who’s John?” Hearing Ymir speak the name made something twist inside Jean. How long had it been since he heard the name last time? Six years?

“How do you know John?” he faltered. The nausea was taking over everything in Jean’s mind now, and whatever Ymir said next escaped him, as he jerked himself up and ran to the kitchen. He barely made it to the sink before he was bent in two, heaving his guts up.

 

The next morning wasn’t horrible only because of the splitting headache that was the first thing Jean felt when he woke up, but also because he remembered the conversation. He felt his insides freeze when he remembered he had talked about John. He couldn’t remember everything he had said, but he knew he had said too much. _Too fucking much._ He had passed out on the couch pretty soon after throwing up all the contents of his stomach. Ymir had half-carried, half-walked him there, and now she and Christa were intertwined together in his bed. His mouth felt dry, and the taste was repulsive. He had no clue of the time, but none of that mattered. He felt like puking again, the panic and anxiety paralysing him in place. Why had he talked about John? He strained himself trying to remember, but all that came to his mind was Ymir asking about John, and him talking way too generously about it.

“Fucking fuck fuck”, he hissed at himself. He pressed his hands on his face, blowing air slowly out of his lungs.

“Fuck”, he groaned. When Ymir and Christa finally woke up hours later, the sun already setting, Jean kept quiet and avoided eye contact with either of them. They didn’t seem to notice and if they did, they thought it was the hangover. Jean was the worst when it came to hangovers; he usually sulked the whole day and snapped if anyone tried to make him do anything. So they let him be, although he did look unusually pale, even for him. They ate leftovers Sasha had given Jean, listening to music from Jean’s old laptop. He nibbled some of the food, feeling sorry for his sore stomach that objected every bite. When the girls were full and satisfied, they hung around a while more before they got their stuff together and left Jean with _see ya_ ’s and _later_ ’s. After that he screened their calls for good three months.

 

And now, here they were. Sitting in his apartment like nothing had ever happened. They hadn’t mentioned the night not once, and Jean didn’t know if it was because he had asked them to not, or because they really were happy to just see him again and didn’t care.

“How did you know I was home?” When he spoke, both of the girls fell silent.

“Look who’s back, we thought you fell asleep”, Ymir joked. Jean sat up clumsily, and furrowed his brow.

“Seriously. How’d ya know I was home?” he repeated the question. Ymir glanced at Christa, who widened her eyes at the other girl.

“We didn’t, we just assumed”, Ymir finally shrugged. She unscrewed the cork on the tequila, ready to pour some more for them all, but Jean placed his hand over his glass. Ymir looked up at him, and his features were harsh now.

“ _How_ did you know I was home?” His mind was sober enough now, and the way Ymir avoided the question spoke volumes. Something was wrong, he saw it in Ymir’s face and heard it in Christa’s voice.

“What’s wrong, Jean?” Her voice was soft as ever; disarming even, but Jean knew it was all bluff. Christa was good at talking people into and out of things, her face so sweet and voice so reassuring.

“Just answer the _fucking_ question. You appear behind my door out of nowhere after three months, and you think I’m gonna buy your ‘we just _assumed_ ’ bullshit?” He raised the volume of his voice unwittingly, and an uneasy look spread across Ymir’s face.

“Calm down”, she spoke, her voice low and cautious.

“No, just answer me, it’s not that fucking hard”, he spat. Christa flinched, and Ymir gritted her teeth and swallowed.

“Fine, just calm down. How did we know you were home? Because we ran into that friend of yours, the one with the buzz-cut? Yeah, whatever his name is. Christa recognised him from some photo she’s seen of you and him together. Anyway, you stopped returning our fucking calls, Jean. We heard nothing of you for _three_ months! I think I called you at least a hundred times and sent you as many texts.”

“What did he say to you?” Jean blurted out. He couldn’t imagine the three of them in a same room. No, he could, but he didn’t want to. The three people in the world that knew him the best… No, that didn’t sound good.

“He told us you do this sometimes, lock yourself in your apartment and close the world outside. He said you’re a bit of a loner”, Ymir’s voice was still low, as if she was afraid to say something wrong and make Jean lose his shit again.

“I’ve known you so long, or so I think anyway, and I thought I knew you well enough, but I guess I was wrong.” She wiped her nose, following Jean’s reactions closely.

“What did you say to him?” Jean was furiously trying to connect the dots to see where this would lead, but his mind wasn’t working fast enough, and he felt the same panic twisting in his guts he had felt so many months ago. Claustrophobia was working his mind now, and he felt like suffocating on the seemingly thick air.

“Nothing much, just that we haven’t heard from you for so long and whenever we came behind your door, you wouldn’t open or weren’t home.” Yeah, Jean remembered them knocking on his door a few times, but it had been at least a month, a month and a half they did that last time.

“Why now?”

“Because”, Ymir shrugged, “you were home. Look, there’s no hidden agenda here.”

“We really missed you, Jean.” It was Christa. Jean turned his head slightly to look at the blonde, and there was worry splattered all over her petite features.

“We just wanted to see you, that’s all. And your friend sounded worried about you too, but he said you wouldn’t take it well if he came knocking on your door.”

“But we figured we got nothing to lose”, Ymir continued Christa’s train of thought.

“Why are you so jumpy, Jean? It’s _us_ , we’re friends, remember?” Christa’s voice was sincere and ever so gentle, and Jean felt like crying, a lump suddenly rising in his throat. No matter what he did or didn’t do he always did wrong, hurting or worrying people around him. He didn’t want to worry anyone, no; all he really wanted was just to be left alone. He sighed.

“I don’t know what to say”, he mumbled. He felt the girls’ eyes on him, both of them staring at him with anticipation. Christa reached her hand and placed it on his shoulder, rubbing it softly. Jean forced the lump down in his throat.

“Look, I… I feel really uncomfortable if people get too close. It’s nothing personal, I just… Don’t let them, really.” He hesitated a moment, before mumbling a barely audible _sorry_.

“It’s fine”, Christa said soothingly and scooted closer to him. She wrapped her arm around his hunched frame, and he hummed quietly. Ymir was silent, just eyeing the guy contemplatively.

“Mmm, your friend kinda said something about that. That you, how did he put it, you’re terrified of letting people see the real you. That you have trust issues. Like maybe you think you’re boring or that people wouldn’t like you if they knew you, but all I can say is that we wouldn’t be here if we didn’t like you. I wanna think that all this hasn’t been just an act, or else you’re a hella good actor.”

“He said that?” Jean questioned quietly. He had never stopped to think just how much Connie actually understood of what was going on, and if he had, he had ignored the thought straight away. The guy seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

“He also sang your praise, so I guess you’ve really made an impression on him”, Ymir grinned, and that relaxed Jean a bit. Christa was still leaning on him, her arm around him, and he carefully took her free hand in his.

“Yeah, no idea how that happened”, he murmured, and Christa entwined their fingers. They sat quietly for a long time, each of them lost in their thoughts. Jean wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about all this, but at least the panic had slowly begun to subside. He had so many questions racing in his mind, but he didn’t know where to begin, or rather, if he should ask them at all. Some things were better left untouched and unspoken.

“Jean”, Ymir’s voice was serious when she broke the silence. He blinked a few times, waiting for her to continue.

“I think what we need now is to get out, go to the new gay bar downtown, and party like it was 1999. But only after you’ve taken a shower.”

 

Exactly 15 and half minutes later they were out of the apartment, stuffed in a taxi, destroying the last drops of the tequila. The driver gave them dissatisfied looks via the rear mirror, but the trio was too busy laughing at Ymir’s obscene jokes that they paid no heed. When they arrived at their destination, Ymir and Jean leapt out of the car, leaving Christa to pay the driver. She stumbled out of the taxi, shouting _thanks_ before closing the door. She grimaced at Ymir.

“You’re paying the ride back”, she pointed her, shaking her finger. Jean gave a self-absorbed smile at the tan girl rolling her eyes and lit a cigarette. He smoked it quickly as Ymir cursed the cold weather under her breath. He threw half of it in the snow and they dashed inside. Jean knew the bouncer from work, and the guy greeted them with a warm smile, letting them cut the line. Some of the people standing outside yelled disappointedly. Jean exchanged necessary pleasantries with him before they made their way into the more or less cramped place. The music consisted of old hits from the 90s, and that seemed to immediately get Ymir in the mood. She wasn’t one to dance, mostly because she was so clumsy and awkward that she looked like she was having a seizure whenever she did, but the tequila seemed to have worked magic on her.

“God I _love_ this”, she shouted over the music, swinging her arm around Jean. He rolled his eyes.

“God, I _hate_ this”, he shouted back, and Ymir shoved him away, making him laugh.

“You keep your whatever you call the weird shit you listen to”, she sneered, and turned to face Christa, who was walking behind them.

“Come on baby, let’s go _daaaaance_!” She chirped, grabbing the other girl’s shoulders. She jumped up and down excitedly, accidentally shoving people cramming by, and Christa looked slightly terrified.

“Do you remember what happened last time?”

“Psh, it wasn’t _my_ fault. Besides, all he got was a black eye. Made him look better in my opinion, as good as that fugly mug could”, Ymir huffed, and shook Christa by her shoulders.

“C’mooon, I wanna dance, I love this song!” And before Christa could form a reply, she was yanked through the mass of people towards the dance floor. Jean decided he wasn’t following them, although the dance floor was a great place to attract attention and find someone stupid enough to buy him drinks. Instead he made it to the bar by himself, finding a vacate spot. He leaned over the counter and eyed the people around expertly. No one worth wasting a second thought on, so he figured he could just get pissing drunk and let Ymir carry him home. It wouldn’t take much, since he was pretty wasted already, but not wasted enough to _not_ cringe at the _Barbie Girl_ blaring through the speakers. He dug through his pockets until he found a few wrinkled bills and some lint. The lint he discarded, and the bills he straightened lazily. He was lost in his thought and didn’t notice the person standing next to him until they cleared their throat.

“Hey”, the guy shouted at him, leaning a little closer to catch Jean’s attention. Their shoulders touched, and Jean turned his head to take a look at the stranger. He leaned away, breaking the contact.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the guy continued when Jean didn’t reply. He was really plain looking with flat, brown hair, maybe in his thirties, and he had one of those voices that annoyed the shit out of people without them even understanding why. Jean wrinkled his nose and shook his head.

“Nah”, he stated, and proceeded to ignore the guy. He fiddled the money in his hands, but the guy wasn’t one to give up too easily.

“Look”, he started, “just one drink. I’ll leave you alone then. I didn’t think you’d be interested in me anyway, but I figured since you were alone…”

“You figured what?” Jean interrupted annoyed, not even looking at him. He was so sick of guys who couldn’t take a hint even if it slapped them across the face. The guy was silent for a while, before he leaned closer again. Jean took a step away, but the guy followed.

“I just figured since you were alone, you could, maybe, use some company? We could just talk.” Jean could smell the guy’s breath reeking of alcohol even through his own drunkenness, and he shuddered. He pushed the money back in his pocket and turned away to leave. The guy clutched Jean’s arm, his fingers digging into his flesh.

“Where you going?” he whined.

“Toilet, and don’t fucking touch me ever again”, Jean yanked his arm free and sneered at the guy.

“I’ll be waiting here!” the guy yelled after him.

 

Sure enough, when Jean cautiously made his way back to the bar, the guy was still standing there. He spotted Jean faster than he could turn around and run away, and preceding his stupid face was a hand holding a beer.

“I didn’t know what you like so I went with the safest bet”, he said sheepishly.

“Didn’t I say no once already? Because I’m pretty fucking sure I did”, Jean flared, but the guy kept his hand extended.

“I’m just trying to be nice”, was the quiet response.

“I don’t _need_ nice you stupid cunt. What I need is you to piss off and leave me alone.”

“Will you at least take the beer? I don’t like beer and I don’t know what else to do with it…” Jean was pretty sure something in his head was going to pop pretty soon, but he took the drink anyway, all the while glaring at the guy.

“Scram.” He took a long sip of the cold liquid, and the guy gave a weak smile. He took his own fancy ass cocktail and disappeared into the mass. Jean had nothing against free drinks, but since the guys buying them for him usually expected something in return, they had to be at least decent-looking. He needed someone to buy him drinks all night, not a drink here and a drink there, that was too high-maintenance, and sometimes the guys lingered, like this bastard. Him, he wouldn’t let even Eren fuck him. And then his train of thought smoothly slid from free drinks to Eren, and he wondered drunkenly what the guy was doing. He wouldn’t mind doing that annoying son-of-a-bitch now that he was wasted; too bad he hadn’t taken him up on his offer to exchange numbers. He had deleted Eren’s number long time ago, even though he had kept it on his phone longer than necessary. He knew the guy wasn’t coming back when he had walked out of his apartment so long ago, but he figured he could always put the number on a shady website with a notification “free blowjobs” just to make him suffer. He never did; instead he wrote it on a few toilet stalls in different bars and night clubs across the city. He chuckled to himself at the thought and swallowed more of the beer. It tasted extraordinary good after the tequila, and even the music wasn’t _so_ bad anymore. He really should’ve taken Eren’s number, he was a good laid, and not so bad when he kept his mouth shut. Jean didn’t remember him being so annoying a year ago, or maybe he was just still bitter at the guy for getting rid of him because of Mikasa. The guy might’ve been bi, but it was obvious he preferred dicks over pussies. Jean wasn’t one to get dumped; _he_ was the one who dumped people. _His_ heart didn’t get broken, he broke hearts. Another long gulp of the beer. Fucking Eren. He emptied rest of his beer and set the glass on the counter. He sacrificed a few seconds thinking about Ymir and Christa, but reckoned they were still dancing or making out in the toilets. Whichever it was, he didn’t want to get involved. He nodded at the bartender and ordered another beer.

 

He was walking up a flight of stairs, that much was sure. He felt the toes of his shoes hitting the edge of the steps when he didn’t raise his feet high enough. He was stumbling, but someone was holding him up. He felt their hand wrapped around his waist, clutching his jacket, his own arm hanging uselessly over the person’s shoulders. Someone was saying something to him, but he couldn’t make sense of the words. It sounded like they were speaking backwards, and Jean couldn’t even feel his own lips or tongue. Maybe it was him talking, he wasn’t sure. His eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, and he forced them open with all his might. It was dim and he couldn’t focus his gaze on anything. He let his eyes fall closed.

 

He wasn’t walking anymore. He wasn’t actually moving at all. There was a low, monotonous sound coming somewhere. At first it sounded like humming, but slowly he started to recognise the slight pauses between the sounds. Someone was talking. Were they talking to him? Jean moved his toes carefully, trying to feel his body. Yes, his toes worked, and bit by bit he regained the control and feeling of his muscles. He was lying down on something solid but comfortable. His head felt heavy, so heavy, and no matter how hard he tried to, he couldn’t get it up. He fixated on getting his eyes open, and slowly, painfully so, they obeyed. There was light, but it was still dim. All he saw at first was the white ceiling in a distance, and he stared at it, the voice now sounding clearer and louder.

“You okay?” The person continued to speak, but the rest was a blur to Jean. His head was spinning slightly, and even though he could feel his body, it wouldn’t budge. Gradually his vision expanded, and he saw something hanging on the wall opposite of him, a painting maybe, and a ceiling fan.

“You okay? Please tell me you’re okay.” More words. Jean’s tongue felt like a useless piece of meat in his mouth, dry and numb, and he realised his mouth was hanging partially open. He snapped it shut, something in his body working right. His brain on the other hand was still not functioning properly, and he tried his hardest to form coherent thoughts. He had no recollection of anything, he had no idea what had happened or where he was, and that alone should’ve had him nervous as hell. But his brain couldn’t muster up the energy to do so, and he just blinked slowly, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

“Shit”, the person muttered. Exhaustion took over Jean’s mind, and he let his eyes slip closed again.

 

The next time he regained consciousness his brain worked a little faster. He was able to open his eyes at once, only to be greeted by the same white ceiling and the ugly ceiling fan. He wiggled his toes and raised his hand successfully. His head still felt a little hollow and his movements were slow and clumsy, but he succeeded in getting himself in a sitting position. He was in an unfamiliar bedroom. The shades on the window on his right were shut, and the only source of light was a small lamp on a nightstand next to the bed he was lying in. The room was ascetic, only one picture on the white walls, and no other furniture in addition to the bed and the nightstand. The thing that freaked him out the most was the fact that he didn’t have a shirt on. That sent an adrenaline rush through his veins, and he stumbled out of the bed. _Focus, Jean, focus._ The sudden movement made his head twirl a little faster, and he leaned against the wall. He looked down at his legs, and felt relieved to find his jeans still on. They were unbuttoned, but on. _Focus_. He straightened himself with difficulty, making sure his balance wouldn’t fail him, and leaned off the wall. He felt his pockets with both hands and found his phone. _Call someone_. Who? _Connie. Call Connie_. He needed to call Connie. With stiff fingers he drew the phone out. It slipped and fell on the floor with a sound that felt loud in the otherwise quiet space. Jean froze in his place, his heart beating up in his throat. Nothing happened and he fell on his knees, reaching for the phone. He was able to unlock the screen, the battery telling him there was only 20 % left, and he hurried to his contacts. Connie. Call Connie. That was all that he needed to do now. He pressed the name and waited, until the phone informed him he was calling Connie. He took the phone up to his ear.

 

 _Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._ Please pick up. Please pick up.

 

“Have you any idea what the time is? I’m glad you’re alive but still, man.” Connie’s voice was groggy and positively annoyed when he finally answered. Jean opened his mouth but no sound came out. He swallowed, his tongue so dry it got stuck on the roof of his mouth.

“Jean?” Connie’s voice sounded a little less annoyed.

“Connie…” When Jean was able to get his vocal chords to work, his voice came out quiet and husky. He cleared his throat and swallowed again.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?” No signs of annoyance anymore.

“Can you… come and… get me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you understood when the flashbacks began and ended. If not, I'm gonna cry. I'm so emotional over this right now it's silly.
> 
> Hit me up in [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com) if you want to know what's my favourite kinda pizza. Or to redeem your "dollyboy's undying love" coupon for commenting/liking/reading this.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say when God closes a door he opens a window, but Jean would rather have them both closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say, I had so many things I wanted to ramble about but I seem to have forgotten them. This chapter seems like a whole lotta nothing, I hope I don't bore you to death with it.
> 
> PS. I listened to [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_h_Cftesm7c) on repeat while writing this. If you ever need to feel pumped, put on your headphones and turn up the volume.

Jean woke up with a flinch. His eyes shot open and he jerked himself up. He had a feeling in the back of his head like he’d just woken up from a nightmare but couldn’t remember what the nightmare was about. It took him a while to recognise his surroundings; he was at Connie’s. He was lying on the familiar beige couch, and he was fully clothed. Someone had thrown a blanket over him and tugged a pillow under his head. He noted he had drooled generously on it in his sleep.

“Morning. Or rather, afternoon.” Connie’s voice coming from the kitchen startled Jean, and he jumped a little.

“Jesus, man. You scared the living shit outta me”, he mumbled, his heart pounding in his chest. The amount of alcohol consumed last night didn’t help at all, as it made his heart beat faster anyway. Connie walked in the living room with a cup in his hand, and he held it out for Jean over the couch. Jean could smell the coffee long before he gratefully accepted the cup, and he took a long sip. It made him shudder with pleasure.

“Thanks, Con”, he mumbled, partially into the cup.

“How you feeling?” the guy asked casually. Jean shrugged and downed more of his lifeblood also known as coffee.

“Fine I s’pose.”

“Yeah?” There was disbelief in Connie’s voice, and Jean knew he wouldn’t let this one pass. No, he would keep pestering Jean about it for as long as he needed.

“I mean considering I have no recollection of how I ended up here. Last thing I remember I was with Ymir and Christa at my place. So yeah, fine.” Jean raised his eyebrows and smacked his lips, and still looking at Connie he drank the rest of the coffee. The guy didn’t look satisfied, not nearly enough so, but he didn’t say anything for a long time. He was leaning against the back of the sofa, and eyed Jean suspiciously. His brow was furrowed, and Jean knew it could only mean there was going to be more questioning.  
“Huh.” His voice was still casual, but underneath it Jean could sense something else. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“I must’ve drunk too much. Ymir and Christa brought a bottle of tequila and that never ends well. Did I come knocking on your door or something?” Jean responded unconcernedly, setting the empty mug on the coffee table, and took a more comfortable position. He looked up at Connie, who was staring into the distance with narrowed eyes. He was obviously thinking about something really hard, and Jean was begging in his mind the guy to just forget about it and move on. In all honesty, he didn’t want to know what had happened, he sometimes suffered blackouts when he got pissing drunk, and he did _not_ want to know what he had done during those times. Once, according to Ymir, he had tried to give a striptease show for a cop on duty and gotten himself arrested for it. Ymir liked to colour the stories sometimes, but in the morning he had woken up in jail spooning some stranger smelling of booze and piss, not remembering anything of the last night, so he had no choice but to trust Ymir. Not his proudest moment, hands down.

“Are you asking that seriously?” Connie raised his other eyebrow, and there was sincere curiosity in his voice. He glanced at Jean, who scratched his head.

“Uh. I mean I _think_ we went out, so anything could’ve happen, but I’m not sure. Why? Please tell me you didn’t bail me outta jail or something, not again”, Jean let out a dry laugh, trying to soften the mood, but the expression on Connie’s face didn’t change. Jean cleared his throat, ready to say something more, but instead he swallowed the words down and bit his lips.

“No, nothing like that. Seriously, you don’t remember?” Jean shrugged.

“No. What? Just spill it out, what?”

“You don’t remember calling me at three in the morning?” The disbelief was back in Connie’s voice, thick. Jean shrugged again, but this time more hesitantly. His eyes widened as Connie’s face tightened with uneasiness.

“I seriously don’t remember. What did I do? Just fucking tell me already.” He felt nervous, sick, and hungover, and the way Connie was eyeing him made everything so much worse.

“You were pretty out of it, Jean. I mean, _really_ out of it. Like… I don’t know”, Connie shook his head and let out a deep sigh, “I’ve seen you drunk and that was not just drunk.”

“So what are you saying?” Jean asked, his voice tight. His gut had tightened too, and he swallowed with difficulty. Connie hesitated a long moment, worrying his lower lip.

“I mean… You’re not, you know”, he gulped, and the nervousness in Jean’s stomach deepened. His breath got stuck in his throat for a second before he spoke.

“I’m not what? Fuck, just _say_ whatever you wanna say.”

“You’re not using again, are you?” Connie mumbled the words quietly, and he turned his gaze down. He knew the conversation would not go well, but he had to ask. He could _feel_ the sudden change in the atmosphere, as Jean tensed in the couch, gritting his teeth together.

“I’m… I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say what I fucking think you did”, Jean’s voice was so icy it gave Connie the chills. His eyes were _flaring_ , and Connie felt like the most horrible person in existence. Yeah, this would end horribly.

“Jean–”, he started, already apologetic, but Jean cut him off.

“ _Don’t_. Just don’t. If that’s how highly you think of me, you better check my arms, yeah? Look, I’ll do it for you.” He tugged the sleeves of his hoodie up and extended his arms for Connie to see. The old scars were faded but visible, like they would be for the rest of his life, and Connie felt a sting in his chest.

“I didn’t mean–”

“Of course you didn’t”, Jean pulled the sleeves back down, and his voice was harsh, “like you never do, right?” Connie felt bad, but the way Jean spat the words at him rubbed him the wrong way. He was the one who always backed down from arguments and conflicts, because he couldn’t stand fighting. He was the one to apologise even when it wasn’t his fault, just to make peace, and he rarely got mad about anything. He knew Jean got angry easily, even about the stupidest things, and Connie had learned to avoid talking to the guy whenever he got offended about something minor.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he mouthed the words carefully, but he felt a little hurt, and more than a little annoyed. Jean just stared at him, his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows knitted together tightly.

“It means that I can’t believe you brought that up. Seriously? You really think I’m that stupid?”

“I didn’t _mean_ it like that for Pete’s sake.”

“Yeah? How else could you mean it? Once a junkie, always a junkie, ain’t that right Connie?” Jean was smiling now, the smile menacing on his lips. Connie’s mouth was a thin line as he held back all the things he wanted to say, knowing it would only encourage Jean to attack him more voraciously.

“Suit yourself”, he finally responded resignedly. He leaned off the couch and walked to the kitchen, but Jean refused to accept that as an end of the conversation.

“Don’t do that, man. You didn’t even tell me where you found me. Come on now, tell me what’s going on in that shaved head of yours.” Jean got up from the couch, feeling a little dizzy, but made it after Connie. The guy was leaning his hands against the kitchen table, his back turned to Jean, and his head was hanging down.

“So, what?” Jean walked behind him, shoving him on the shoulder, “you’re not talking anymore?” Connie took a deep breath before he straightened himself. When he turned to face Jean, the guy was standing close to him, his eyes flashing with anticipation.

“You just really worried me, Jean, that’s all. If you say you’re not using, I believe you. No need to get worked up about it.”

“Yeah?” Jean’s eyes narrowed. His voice was reserved.

“Yeah. You were just so, well, not _you_ last night. You were conscious when I got to you, but you passed out in my car, and wouldn’t wake up. I had to carry you inside.” Connie ran both his hands over his short hair and sighed. “I was scared, can you blame me? For a second I thought I would have to call an ambulance. After shaking you and talking to you for like forever you finally came to and just mumbled something that made no sense. You didn’t react to anything I said.”

“Look, I said I drank too much, shit happens.”

“No, it wasn’t like that”, Connie held his breath for a while, before he continued, “you called me, at three in the morning and you sounded really damn distressed. You told me you didn’t know where you were after asking if I could come and get you.” Jean licked his lips. Sure, that didn’t sound like him, but he didn’t want Connie to know that. He didn’t want the guy to worry so much; it only made them both feel miserable. He pondered for a moment, Connie now rubbing his face, blowing air out of his lungs slowly.

“Tequila’s a bitch, what can I say. Stop freaking out so much.” He snorted and rolled his eyes. It was a weak attempt to act as if nothing had happened, and it didn’t calm Connie down at all.

“Seriously? _Tequila’s a bitch_? You… When I got to you, you were half-naked and the guy whose place you were didn’t even know who you were. He told me he found you passed out in the toilets of some bar, and he carried you to his place, because you couldn’t even remember your own fucking _name_ , not to mention where you live, Jean.” Connie’s voice rose involuntarily as he stared at the blonde’s deadpan expression. He couldn’t for the life of his understand how that didn’t bother Jean, not one bit. What he didn’t see behind Jean’s face was the uncomfortableness that made all muscles in his body twitch. All he wanted was to tell Connie to mind his own business, but if he was completely honest, he felt a little worried about what the guy had just told him. His blackouts didn’t usually go like that, most of the time he just made a fool out of himself and felt embarrassed later. Never had he ever called Connie for _help_.

“So you didn’t think to ask the guy why I was half-naked?” Jean had to concentrate on his words so his voice wouldn’t tremble, and he hoped to _gods_ Connie didn’t notice that. The guy shook his head, looking a little hurt that Jean would even ask that.

“I did, actually. He told me you did it yourself. I don’t know, you just kept telling me to get you home, and at some point you didn’t even recognise me anymore. Just kept asking who I was. Pretty soon after that you passed out.”

“And you _believed_ him?” The remark made the hurt expression deepen in Connie’s face.

“I don’t know! He was panicking more than I was and I needed to get you out of there, what choice did I have? To beat him up?” Jean closed his eyes. He tried to remember, but everything after the tequila was blank. He had an image here and an image there, but none of them made sense. He was fairly certain they had left his apartment, but at what time and where he didn’t know.

“Can you tell me exactly what you remember? I just wanna understand this”, Connie asked, and Jean kept his eyes shut.

“I only remember Ymir and Christa coming to my place with tequila. Ymir cut my hair. I… We took a taxi I think. I don’t know”, he finally peeled his eyes open, shrugging lazily. He was getting sick of feeling so hangover all the time, headache once again poking behind his eyes. Connie sighed.

“So why don’t you call one of them?” he suggested. And then Jean remembered something. He remembered Ymir talking about Connie, how they had run into him. The memory of it was now sharp in his mind, and he squinted at Connie.

“Wait. You met them. You met them and you didn’t tell me.”

“Oh yeah, I did.” Connie shrugged. “Briefly, but yeah.”

“You told them I was a loner.”

“Well… You are, a little. I didn’t mean it as a _bad_ thing”, Connie mustered up a weak smile.

“You also told ‘em I have _trust issues_. What the fuck, man?” The guy looked sheepish as he shrugged, the smile vanished.

“Uh, I thought that, um, they’d understand you better if they knew what you’re like. Sorry, I didn’t think it was a big secret or anything.” Jean rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue.

“Next time leave the thinking for me, alright?” Jean’s voice was a little softer, but he was still pretty tense. At least Connie wasn’t asking about last night anymore, that was good. He had to keep the guy’s thoughts off of it for a little longer and then he could just leave, and Connie wouldn’t dare to bring the conversation up again. Another disaster avoided. He wouldn’t have to think about last night ever again, or admit to himself that something weird had happened, and he probably should be _really_ worried about it. No, he’d sweep it under an imaginary rug and move on. Not the wisest way to handle things, but if he started going through all the shit in his closet, he would probably lose his mind.

“Sorry, I assumed… Yeah, I know you hate it when I assume things, but they’re your friends, and… Well, it doesn’t matter anymore I suppose.” Connie felt stupid, and a little embarrassed, and he had started to regret ever saying _anything_ to the two girls.

“Yeah, they’re _my_ friends, not yours to worry about. Just once _try_ and mind your own business, aight? I fucking hate it when people talk about me behind my back like that.” Jean’s words stung, hard, but Connie took a deep breath and kept his mouth shut. So apparently he had screwed up majorly, or maybe Jean was punishing him for even slightly suggesting he thought the guy might’ve been on something more than alcohol. He knew something fishy had happened, but Jean would go mental if he were to try and mention it again, so he let it drop. As he always did. Maybe Jean was lying to him, it wouldn’t be a first, but it didn’t matter. He obviously wasn’t going to talk about it, and Connie was tired of trying to get anything out of the guy.

“Alright”, he said calmly, and Jean nodded sharply.

“Good.”

“But Jean?”

“What?”

“I wish you didn’t try so hard to push me away.” Connie’s voice was apologetic, but it only irritated Jean more. He was on the edge now, and everything Connie said felt like an invasion of his privacy, and he couldn’t stand it.

“And I wish you knew when to just shut up”, he snarled. Connie’s eye twitched.

“But that’s _all_ I ever do, Jean. I shut up because if I don’t, you lose your shit, like now. No need to get so defensive, I said alright, I’ll mind my own business. Jesus, just calm –”

“ _If_ you tell me to calm down I’m gonna _seriously_ lose my shit”, Jean snapped, pointing his finger at Connie’s face, “ _don’t_ tell me to calm down, it _pisses me off_.” He pressed the finger against Connie’s forehead, and the guy swatted his hand away.

“There aren’t many things that _don’t_ piss you off”, he grunted. Jean was really doing his best to make Connie feel like the asshole here, and even his nearly infinite patience had a limit. He had never reached it yet, but with Jean, anything was possible.

“Yeah, well. Many of them have to do with you not getting off my back.” Jean glared the guy, crossing his arms across his chest, and Connie squeezed his hands into fists. He was almost trembling, still holding back the nastiest things he felt like saying.

“I’ll get off your back alright. Do whatever you like, I’ll promise to stay out of it. It’s not like _you_ called me last night – no, wait, you _did_.” He didn’t mean to sound so triumphant, but he told himself quietly that Jean deserved it. The blonde wrinkled his nose.

“And I regret it so hard. Shoulda known you’d throw it back in my face. Does it feel good to be so fucking _perfect_?” The way Jean almost hissed the last word annoyed Connie way more than he liked to admit. Jean was getting to him, and it looked like the blonde was enjoying it. He was enjoying playing the martyr, once again.

“I _never_ do that, don’t even try and put that shit on me. When have I _ever_ done that? Besides, I don’t pretend to be perfect, far from it, that’s all in your head, Jean. It’s not _my_ fault that –”

“That _what_?” Jean shot the words at him, and Connie hesitated for a fraction of a second.

“That you have so many fucking _issues_.” Connie hadn’t meant to say it out loud, or so he thought, but the way Jean was looking down his nose at him was the last straw. Some part of him had had enough, and he felt strangely emancipated, even though Jean’s eyes widened and his whole being tensed at Connie’s words.

“Fuck. _You_ ”, the guy hissed, his voice shivering slightly.

“No, guess what. Fuck _you_ , Jean. If I had a dollar every time you told me to fuck off or piss off I’d be a rich man by now. I’m sick of it, I’m so _sick_ of it.” Connie shook his head, his face flushed with anger. Something had snapped out of place in his mind and he didn’t care anymore. He would give the arrogant son-of-a-bitch a piece of his mind even if it killed him.

“Fuck you and your issues, fuck you and your ‘I don’t need anyone’ attitude, fuck you and fuck _everything_. Y’know, all I wanted was you to acknowledge the fact that I bend down _back_ wards for you, I fucking _jump_ whenever you tell me to jump, but no, you take me for granted. You take everything for granted, and I seriously don’t know how you’ve got the nerve. Nobody likes you because you’re an _asshole_ , and you treat everyone like shit yet expect them to run to your aid whenever you need them to.” Connie stopped to stare at Jean, who couldn’t do anything but stare back.

“And you know what else? _I_ don’t need you, I never needed you, I actually have friends who _like_ me and who _care_ about what’s going on in my life. You? You never even ask how I am. It’s not like I ever expected you to, but you know, you’re not the only one with problems. Hey, sometimes us boring people have problems too. They’re not important like _yours_ of course, but I’m a person too. I have feelings too for fuck’s sake! And sometimes, _sometimes_ I’d like it if my best fucking friend listened to what I have to say, even if it might bore you mindless, because that’s what friends do. They put up with each other’s shit, no matter how boring or stupid because hey, it’s nice to do that for someone every now and then. You wouldn’t know about it, you don’t care. I’m starting to think I don’t mean shit to you, just like no one else does.” The silence after Connie ended his rant was deafening. Jean blinked slowly, and every part of him ached like never before. He couldn’t think of one thing to say, and Connie was looking at him, waiting for a response. All he really wanted was Jean to apologise and he would’ve forgiven him, forgiven everything, and he would’ve told him it was all fine and it would’ve been true. That’s all he wanted. He didn’t even feel angry anymore, he felt exhausted and slightly sorry for saying all those things, but he _needed_ Jean to apologise. He needed the guy, for once in his life, to get off his high horse.

“Wow”, was the response Jean finally gave. His voice was quiet, almost non-audible, and his eyes were still wide and his body tense. The blood had escaped his face, and he looked like a ghost to Connie. Jean could feel his heart beating like crazy, and he worried Connie might hear it. His nails had sunk in his palms, but he couldn’t even feel it. Everything would’ve been much simpler, if Jean hadn’t been so proud.

“So… that’s how you see me?” he said quietly. Connie’s face melted into an apologetic frown, and he shook his head.

“That’s not the point, Jean, don’t you get it? I’m trying and trying and nothing seems to be enough. Just please, give me something to work with here.” He was pleading now, and he was this close to just telling the blonde he was sorry for everything because that’s how they usually did. That was the only way he was ever able to make everything right.

“I don’t know what you want, Con. All _I_ wanted was you to just leave me the fuck alone. And don’t worry, next time I won’t be bothering you if I end up unconscious somewhere.” Jean had wanted to say something completely different, but for some reason he didn’t. He listened to himself say the absurd things he did, and wondered idly if he really was a moron. Maybe Connie was right; he was an utter asshole, and maybe he was born that way. Maybe it was in his DNA and he would keep screwing everything and everyone up until there was no one left, and he’d die alone and miserable and rot in his apartment for two months before anyone even missed him. When he watched Connie’s eyes narrow and his fists clench and unclench, he realised one thing: he didn’t deserve Connie.

“Right. Get out. Get the fuck out of my house.” Connie’s voice was a mere hiss, and he spoke from between his teeth. That was the limit of his patience, and Jean noticed it. He suddenly had a sinking feeling in his gut, and for a fraction of a second he was going to apologise. He was going to swallow his stupid, no-good pride and tell the guy what an idiot he had been. But before he got that far, Connie lost his cool completely.

“I said _get out_. Get the fuck out, you egoistic prick.” He pushed Jean hard, his hands flying against his chest, and Jean stumbled backwards. Whatever thought he had had about apologising, the thought was far gone now.

“ _Fine_ ”, he barked and turned on his heels. In a few seconds he was at the hall, pushing his shoes on hastily and grabbing his jacket. Without even looking back he made it out and slammed the door shut behind him. He hurried down the stairs and stopped at the end of them for a second or two, before he bent forward and threw up in the snow. Not much came out, and his empty stomach convulsed painfully.

 

When he felt like his legs wouldn’t give in, Jean started walking home. He had found his phone from the pocket of his jacket, but the battery had run out.

“Figures”, he mumbled and shoved it back where he found it. The journey felt longer than anything ever before, but the cold air cleared his mind and he had time to think about things. Not that he wanted to, but it was inevitable. He was starting to remember bits and pieces here and there, nothing that would really explain anything, but it was a start. If he was honest, he was terrified of remembering too much. He _knew_ he hadn’t taken anything, and no matter how drunk he was, he wouldn’t even smoke anything but cigarettes. It was all or nothing when it came to drugs, and he wasn’t going back on the ‘all’ road. That left two choices: either someone had slipped him something or… He couldn’t even think of another option. He was always very careful and cautious when it came to drinks in a bar, but obviously he had slipped, and now he didn’t know whether the guy had been telling Connie the truth or if something else had happened, and he didn’t even know what the fucking guy looked like. He didn’t know anything, maybe Connie had sugar-coated the story and things had been much worse.

“No, no, nope”, Jean muttered to himself and shook his head. He had enough things to lose his sleep over; he was going to leave this to be. When he was finally able to steer his train of thought into another direction, he got to thinking about Connie. Another thing he didn’t want to remember, but all he could see now in his mind was Connie so _angry_ , his whole body trembling and the sharp words shooting out of his mouth.

“Shit”, Jean whispered. It had all gone to hell, and the more he thought about it, the more positive he was that Connie had been right. He wouldn’t have anyone in his life if he lost the guy. Sure, he had Christa and Ymir, but it was different. He already missed Connie and his safe rambling about everything and nothing at the same time. With him Jean felt _safe_ above all; he forgot his own miserable life when he listened to Connie babble about Sasha and whatever he usually babbled about. And then he winced as he realised he had no clue what Connie usually talked about. Was he really such a shitty friend? It pained him to think that Connie had meant all those things he had said, and Jean had just turned it all around and made it all about him. What was wrong with him? And above all, what was wrong with Connie for putting up with it all these years?

 

Even the relatively cold air of his apartment felt like a paradise after being outside for almost 20 minutes. Jean shivered and got out of his clothes, only to change into something more comfortable. He plugged the phone on its charger and slouched on his couch. For 15 minutes he merely stared at his wall, waiting for the phone to charge enough so it would restart. He kept his thoughts restrained, biting his nails and focusing on a small crack on the plastering of the wall. He realised he was starving but made no effort to get off the couch to check if he had anything edible around. He really felt like getting shitfaced, but he knew there was no alcohol in his apartment. He always drank everything straight away and that’s why he only bought some if he was planning on getting drunk. Well, now he felt like getting drunk and remaining in that state until the end of the world or until things sorted themselves out. He bit off a chunk of his nail, spat it out, and kept on gnawing. He hadn’t even notice himself doing it until the light on his phone went on, and it happily restarted. It announced with big, white letters the time to be almost six in the evening. He dropped his hands to reach for the phone, and went through the missed calls. There were five from Ymir, ranging from one in the morning to two thirty in the morning, and two from Christa in about the same time span. He had called Connie at 3:07. Three texts from Ymir.

 

_where r u we’re still dancing COME ON_

at 12:38 pm

 

_dude where the hell r u pICK UP UR PHONE_

at 1:32 am

 

_did u find some1? i need details l8r_

at 2:14 am

 

Jean wrote a short reply to her and sent it. Then he mused shortly before he fetched his laptop and waited for a ridiculously long time for it to take off. He lazily browsed through a couple of web pages before he found what he needed. He typed in a number on his phone and hit call. The person on the other end picked up fairly quickly.

“Hi, it’s Jean. You busy tonight?” There was a brief silence before the person cleared their throat.

“I’m, um, not sure. Why?”

“Come over and bring alcohol.” Jean’s stomach grumbled. “Oh, and pizza.”

“How about—” Jean hung up before the person could finish their thought. A couple of seconds later he got a text consisting of one word: WHATEVER _._ Yeah, the person was coming alright.

 

Half an hour later there was a lazy knock on the door, and when Jean opened it, Eren stood on the other side. He extended the pizza box in his hand to Jean, the expression on his face a mix of boredom and annoyance.

“What pizza is it?” Jean asked, attempting to get the case open.

“Pepperoni”, Eren grunted, pushing inside past Jean. The blonde stepped aside and made a face.

“Eugh. Did you bring—”

“Right here”, Eren called out over his shoulder, holding a six pack in the air. He kicked his shoes off and dropped his jacket on the floor and slouched over to the couch. He fell on it with a comfortable sigh and opened a beer. After taking a long gulp he belched voluptuously.

“Smooth”, Jean stated, while walking to the tiny kitchen and Eren hummed.

“I try”, he responded. “Now do you wanna tell me why am I here?” He heard Jean rummaging in the kitchen before he was back in the living room. He sat on the couch and gave the guy a plate. They destroyed the pizza in less than ten minutes, both of them apparently hungry. Eren opened another beer and gave it to Jean, who nodded his head as a thank you. He downed half of it in one go, and before he was even finished, Eren was handing him a second.

“I know you’re a bit slow, but answer the question. I know you heard me”, he said indifferently after them sitting in a silence for a solid fifteen minutes. Jean glanced at him and grimaced.

“Fuck you Jaeger.”

“So _that’s_ why I’m here. I had my doubts, but it’s nice to hear it coming from you”, he smirked, and Jean narrowed his eyes. He gave the guy his best “kindly piss off” face he could manage, but Eren was immune to it, only grinning widely. He raised his other eyebrow and winked his eye.

“You’re so predictable, Kirschtein, even though you try so hard not to be. It’s almost cute if it wasn’t so—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, because suddenly Jean’s hand was holding the front of his shirt and he was yanked forward. Their lips crushed on each other with a little too much force, but when Eren tried to pull back, Jean only tightened his grip. He shoved his tongue in the guy’s mouth, ignoring his resistance, and Eren gave in, moaning loudly into the kiss.

“Shut the fuck up Jaeger”, Jean grumbled, sinking his teeth into Eren’s lower lip. The guy obeyed with a moan, his hand finding the back of Jean’s head and he sunk his short nails into his scalp. Their tongues slid against each other hungrily, their lips devouring one another, and soon Jean pushed Eren on his back on the couch, leaning over him. Eren tucked his hands under Jean’s shirt, running his nails against the skin of his back, and Jean shuddered. He broke the kiss, Eren whining at the loss of touch, and slid his other hand into Eren’s hair, forcing him to tilt his head back. Eren let out a yelp, which turned into a long groan, when Jean’s lips made it to his neck, followed by his teeth. He licked, nipped and sucked his way around his throat, and Eren wriggled under him helplessly, trying to break free of Jean’s iron grip on his hair. His heels sunk into the cushions under him as he pushed his hips against Jean, grinding into him, the sensation making Jean moan the slightest. He forced Eren’s legs more apart with his own just to get closer to him, and Eren choked out a cry. Jean made sure to bite a little harder every now and then, just to hear Eren’s breath become hitched and the generous moans and whimpers running from his flushed lips. This was what he needed: to get off to get his mind off of everything. And when Eren ran both his hands through his barely-blonde hair and his lips searched desperately for Jean’s, Jean let himself forget everything outside that moment and kissed the guy breathless.

 

They had somehow managed to make it to the bed between sloppy make-out, groping, and undressing, and now they were lying there, Jean on his back, holding a lit cigarette. His empty plate was serving as an ashtray. He didn’t even bother to open the window anymore and he figured if someone in the building complained, he could always play dumb and plead to ignorance. The landlady adored him way too much to be angry with him. Eren was pressed tightly on his side, his hand thrown over Jean’s bare chest. He was drawing lazy circles against Jean’s pale skin with his fingertips, and his eyes were closed. He was a post-sex cuddler which Jean hated, but he let the guy have his way, just this once. Eren’s warm breath tickled his shoulder, his nose pressed against it, and Jean concentrated on it and the flaming tip of his cigarette. He took a drag out of it and shifted a little, Eren following his movements and drawing himself closer.

“You know I hate when you do that”, Jean mumbled, blowing out the smoke. Eren chuckled quietly.

“I do, and I don’t care”, was the muffled response. With his free hand, Jean was fidgeting the edge of the blanket thrown carelessly over them. He was wondering how long was long enough to let the guy stay before he could tell him to get out. If he acted at least decently, he wouldn’t have to listen to Eren piss and moan about him being an ass.

“I hope you didn’t leave any visible marks ‘cause I’ve got a date tomorrow”, Eren’s voice was drowsy, and he let out a long sigh.

“I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t fuck you anyway the moment you open your big mouth”, Jean murmured. Eren snorted, lifting his head and finally opened his eyes.

“It’s a _she_ , and besides, _you_ just did, so what does that say about you?” he mocked, and Jean pushed him away. It was to no avail, as Eren quickly scooted closer again. Jean groaned.

“I was horny and you’re easy”, he stated. He reached for the plate on the nightstand and put the cigarette out. Eren let out a dry laugh.

“You’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen. Why don’t you just admit that you can’t enough of the Jaegermeister?” Eren smirked and bit Jean playfully. The guy jumped a little.

“If you ever refer to yourself as Jaegeremeister again, I’m gonna have to drown you.”

“Sorry, what did you say? It’s hard to hear you with my cock so deep in your mouth”, Eren crooned, only to be rewarded with a slap over the head. He burst into laughter as Jean cussed at him. He pushed Eren on his back and pinned him on the bed by his wrists, and Eren wrapped his legs around Jean’s waist, preventing him from fleeing. He stuck his tongue out, grinning annoyingly at Jean hovering above.

“See, I knew it. Can’t get enough of me can you, Kirschtein?” he hummed. Jean raised his other eyebrow and lowered his head until his face was just inches away from Eren’s, and their breaths mixed in the air between them. The smile faded from Eren’s lips, and his mouth opened slightly. He stared at Jean’s lips and the way his tongue flicked out to lick them quickly. When the guy leaned even closer, Eren lifted his head, trying to meet Jean’s lips with his own. His eyes fell closed, but instead of kissing him, Jean grimaced.

“Screw you Eren”, he whispered, his breath tickling Eren’s lips. Then Jean let go of his wrists and pushed his legs away, getting out of the bed. Eren huffed.

“Whatever. You comin’ to Connie’s next weekend?” He yawned and rolled on his side, watching Jean light another cigarette. The blonde didn’t reply, placing the lighter on a table. He paced around the apartment, picking up dirty clothes and throwing them on the couch.

“Hey, loser, answer me”, he whined. Jean grunted.

“Not likely”, he said blankly and pulled his boxers on. Some ash fell on the floor from the cigarette hanging between his lips.

“Not likely what? Coming to Connie’s? Why?”

“What are you, five? Stop asking so many goddamn questions”, Jean ordered, but Eren whined again.

“Why are you so _difficult_?” he blurted, rolling back to lie on his back. He kept his eyes on Jean, and the blonde turned to look at him over his shoulder. He looked very unhappy with the guy lying in his bed, but Eren just ignored the face he was pulling.

“They’re throwing a big party with _alcohol_ and _food_ , so why the hell aren’t you coming?” he demanded, and the annoyance in Jean’s face deepened. He walked next to the bed, scowling at the messy-haired guy.

“Because.” He grabbed the blanket underneath Eren and yanked it, sending Eren almost to the floor. He yelped, brushing his hair off his face.

“ _Hey_!”

“Get out, I got an early lecture tomorrow.”

“It’s a Sunday.”

“Well then I have work. Whatever, scram.”

“You don’t work until late. Seriously, your excuses are so lame that—” Jean’s phone let out a sound to inform him of a new message. Eren continued to speak, but Jean ignored the rest of it, waving his hand at the guy indifferently. He walked to his phone and unplugged the charger. He browsed to his messages and when Eren raised his voice, he couldn’t hear it. The name of the sender made his heart skip a beat, and he wasn’t sure why.

 

_Hello. I didn’t know how early I should ask you, but could you make it tomorrow at six? Or any time after six is fine with me, I’ll be home. Let me know!_ _:) BR, Marco._

at 8:23 pm

 

“I’ll be damned”, he muttered under his breath, and startled when Eren threw a pillow at him. Instead of turning around and letting Eren have it, he just stared at the message. He took the cigarette between his fingers, more ash falling to the floor, and worried his lips.

“Who died?”

“You, if you don’t get out soon.”

“Fine, whatever. I know you’ll call me anyway the second you start feeling lonely”, Eren snorted. He got out of the bed and got dressed. Jean was still holding his phone, now resting the end of it against his chin, pondering. When Eren wrapped his hands around his waist from behind, burying his nose in his neck, Jean tensed a little. He let the guy kiss his back and neck and hold him a while, but when his hands started to roam, he gave him a push with his elbow. Eren bit him in the neck before letting go.

“Your back’s pretty scratched by the way”, he chuckled. That earned him an extended middle finger, to which Eren responded by rolling his eyes.

“That’d be much more insulting if I didn’t know where that finger has been.” With that he left, leaving Jean alone with his thoughts. And right now his thoughts were made of Marco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this seems to have been a "Jeanmarco minus Marco" story so far, but DON'T WORRY. There will be more Marco. Somewhere. In the meantime enjoy some Jeaneren. My hand _almost_ slipped and I _almost_ wrote some Jeaneren smut. Buuuut I didn't wanna give this an explicit rating ~~yet~~ plus I wanted to keep you on your toes (I'm so awkward) so... Also the ending might or might not be a narrative hook. Insert maniac laughter here. Oh, nothing in this story will be easy ~~except Eren~~.
> 
> I'm running out of ways to mention my [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com).
> 
> OH AND ALSO I'M SORRY IT WASN'T MARCO. I REALLY AM.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco blushes a lot and Jean is pretty good at his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /rambling/ Holy freaking meatballs I had so much trouble with this chapter that I almost lost faith in it. I'm now in the part of the story where everything might fall apart if I don't keep the strings tightly in my hands, but I'm hoping to everything holy that it won't happen. I have a lot going on with the plot yet nothing ever seems to happen. Also one of the reasons why this chapter was so difficult is because I have to start deciding where I want to take this. I have multiple paths and I hope I didn't make the wrong choice and later find out that oops I can't do this because of this earlier choice. And if everything does come apart, I can only hope no one will notice, hurr durr. Also, I'm staying true to myself: it's 2:30 am. I should wait until tomorrow. When have I ever been able to do that -- never. Whatever. /rambling/
> 
> I have a little treat for you in there, I hope you enjoy it. It's dedicated to all of you wonderful people who have read, commented and liked this. Stay awesome ok.

“Oh, hey, Jean. You didn’t reply to my message so I wasn’t sure if you were coming or not.” The wide smile splitting Marco’s face was so charming it made Jean want to puke. He hadn’t slept too well, a nauseating headache keeping him up all night, and he wasn’t really in the mood for this. But he hadn’t much of a choice, since the bills were piling up and he was afraid his electricity might be cut off soon. He needed every damn dollar he could make.

“I kinda forgot”, he shrugged, and Marco let him in.

“Oh no worries, like I said, I would’ve been home all night anyway.” Marco sounded chirpy, and when he made it to the living room after Jean, he was humming quietly to himself. The guy was in a really good mood, which made Jean hate everything so much more. It probably showed, too, because when they sat down, face to face, Marco’s face fell a little.

“You okay? You look tired”, he noted sympathetically.

“Rough coupla days is all”, Jean muttered. He leaned back on the couch, sitting in the same spot as he had before, and crossed his arms across his chest. He yawned, but Marco only smiled tenderly at him.

“You want coffee? It might cheer you up a little.” Jean nodded and Marco got up and skipped to the kitchen, a spring in his step.

“No milk and no sugar, if I remember correctly?” he called out, and Jean hummed in affirmation.

“I don’t know how you can drink your coffee black, it’s too strong for my liking. Me, I use _way_ too much sugar, but then again, I always had a sweet tooth.” Marco rambled on energetically, and it reminded Jean uncannily of Connie. He wasn’t sure if that comforted him or made him want to tear his own head off.

“Chocolate is my absolute weakness, I love chocolate. We used to go to Switzerland with my family when I was a kid and I always brought home as much Toblerone as I could carry.” Marco paced back to the living room, and the smile on his face didn’t seem to tire. “I sometimes wish I was still a kid. Life was much simpler back then.”

“Meh”, was the weak response Jean gave, but Marco didn’t mind his lack of enthusiasm.

“Just think about it: no responsibilities, no worries, and a bar of chocolate made you so happy you could cry. Yeah, those were the times.” Marco sat in the little armchair, and looked at Jean with an eager expression. Jean soon realised he was waiting for a reply, so he nodded once.

“Right”, he mumbled. That made Marco grin widely. He seemed perfectly content with Jean’s short replies, and that suited Jean just fine.

“Now I’m in a place in my life where my parents are expecting me to give them grandchildren, and it’s kind of scary.” Marco clicked his tongue and fidgeted with his fingers. He was the kind of a person who had very expressive features, and when he raised his eyebrows a little, pressing his lips together, he looked amusingly worried.

“I don’t blame ya, kids are scary”, Jean agreed lazily. Marco giggled.

“Oh no, I like children, I really do. But it’s kind of hard to have them without a woman, and… Well, you understand.”

“You want kids, then?”

“One day, sure. I’d love to adopt or maybe use a surrogate mother, but that would mean a lot of explaining to my parents”, Marco chuckled sheepishly. Jean nodded.

“Well you could just, y’know, tell them you prefer bros over hoes”, he grinned stupidly. The reference went over Marco’s head, but he smiled back anyway.

“I know, you’re right, and I will. One day. When I’ve moved out of the country to the other side of the Atlantic, I’ll tweet it and text them a screencap of it.” Jean burst out laughing.

“Oh man, I can just about imagine it. ‘Mom, dad, I like dicks. Love, your gay son. PS. Send Toblerone’.” Marco snickered, the dimples in his cheeks deepening. Jean felt a little better.

“Something like that”, Marco chuckled. “So, how about you? Do you want kids?”

“God no, I hate them. Besides, I have shitty genes, I would never wish the horrible fate of being related to me on anyone”, Jean laughed dryly. He adjusted his position, sitting up a little.

“Why not? You’re smart, you seem to be healthy, you’re good-looking…” A pink hue ran across Marco’s face as he realised what he had just said, and he gaped in horror. “I-I-I mean… Ah, crap.” He slapped his hands over his face and shook his head.

“I’m sorry”, he whimpered. Jean bit his lip and smirked. The guy was such a dweeb.

“Good-looking, huh?” he asked smugly. Marco whimpered again.

“Can we pretend I didn’t say it out loud?” he mumbled against his hands. Jean chuckled.

“Sure, but I might just have to use it against you sometime.” Marco peeked at Jean from between his fingers, before he lowered his hands hesitantly. His face was still a little reddish, and he looked mortified.

“Relax, I’ve heard things far worse than that”, Jean told him. Marco nodded, but he had a hard time containing his embarrassment. He jumped up stiffly.

“The coffee”, he mumbled, giving Jean a smile that looked more like a grimace, and darted to the kitchen. Jean couldn’t help feeling a little self-satisfied as he heard the guy rattling in the kitchen exaggeratedly loud. And he was getting _paid_ for this.

“Here you go”, Marco was back in the living room now, and he placed a cup on the glass table in front of Jean. It smelled so _good_ , and Jean murmured a soft _thanks_.

“Careful, it’s hot. Which you probably figured out already…” Marco was slapping himself mentally across the head, but Jean just smiled amusedly.

“Do you always freak out so much over things?” he asked, and Marco winced a little.

“Sorry, I must seem pretty ridiculous.”

“That would be an understatement, but a bit, yeah”, Jean grinned. Marco sighed and cleared his throat.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea”, he said, taking a careful sip of his coffee.

“And what would that be?” Jean licked his lips and blew into his cup. He watched as the surface rippled slightly.

“That, ah… I’m a paying customer and all that, I haven’t forgotten. I’m not trying to…” Marco hid his face behind his cup unsuccessfully and coughed. “You know.” Jean was really enjoying seeing Marco unravel before him, and he wanted to throw some more gas into the flames.

“To flirt with me?” he suggested, raising his eyebrow. He gave the guy a sly smile, tapping his fingers against the cup in his hands. He leaned a little forward, and Marco looked helpless.

“N-no, definitely not”, he squeaked. Jean tried to catch his gaze, but Marco just stared at his cup, terrified of looking up.

“Why not? Maybe I’d like it”, he crooned. Marco glanced up at him, but the way Jean was eyeing him with bedroom eyes made him look down again quickly. His hands were trembling a little, and Jean noticed it.

“I’m just teasing you, geez. You look like you’re about to combust into flames.”

“S-sorry.”

“I was thinking I could give you that lap dance today, but I’m afraid you might have a fucking heart-attack if I do”, Jean snorted. He said that just to see Marco squirm awkwardly in his chair, gripping the cup so tightly his knuckles were turning white. Suddenly he wasn’t so cheerful anymore, Jean thought smugly.

“ _Oh_.” Marco cleared his throat nervously. He felt like there was a permanent lump in his throat and he couldn’t get it out. Jean studied Marco for a little longer before he decided to give the guy a break.

“Alright, get over it now. It was amusing for a while but I get bored pretty easily”, Jean yawned again, and tasted the coffee. It was even better than last time. He slouched back into the couch, sinking into the cushions.

“You’re so mean”, Marco smiled weakly. Jean returned the smile with an all-knowing attitude.

“ _Now_ you got it. Took you long enough”, he replied. “I figured I scared you so bad last time you didn’t have the guts to contact me again.” Marco relaxed a bit, loosening his death-grip on the mug.

“Well, you _were_ pretty intimidating”, he admitted, “but you seem different this time.” Jean squinted at the guy momentarily.

“Different how?”

“I don’t know… Softer. You seem a little softer.”

“Fuck no, I need to fix that immediately”, Jean gasped, drawing out a giggle fit out of Marco.

“It’s fine Jean, I won’t tell anyone”, he wiped the corner of his eye, forcing the laughter to stop. Jean pursed his lips and shook his head.

“I still have to tell you to fuck off or my reputation as the world’s biggest asshole will be forever lost. Jean fucking Kirschtein doesn’t get soft on anyone. Literally.” He winked tackily with a click of his tongue, and Marco laughed again, almost spilling his coffee.

“You’re crazy”, he declared, and Jean shrugged unconcernedly.

“Takes one to know another”, he answered cheekily. Before Marco could come up with a clever comeback, his jeans emitted a soft vibrating sound. Jean raised his eyebrows and chortled.

“Either you have a vibrator there or—”

“Sorry, it’s my phone. Do you mind if I, uh, take the call?” He pulled the phone out, and Jean hummed.

“Hey, it’s your money”, he pointed out.

“I won’t be long.” Marco placed his cup down and moved to what Jean assumed to be his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Even though Jean tried really hard eavesdropping the conversation, all he could hear was incoherent mumbling. He soon gave up, got up and wandered around the living room. He went through Marco’s bookshelf, which looked pretty impressive if Jean was completely honest. Sure, there were a couple of pretentious supposedly classics, but then again, his own collection of books was pretty limited. He drew out Dostoyevsky’s _Crime and Punishment_ and opened the first page idly. There was a scribble in the corner, and Jean had a hard time making out of the handwriting.

 

_I saw this in an antiquarian bookshop and thought of you immediately. Can you guess why? –A_

 

He flipped the book through quickly before pushing it back in its place. Some of the titles he didn’t recognise, and just as he was about to pull out another book, Marco joined him back into the living room.

“Sorry again, it was my mom. She never lets me hear the end of it if I don’t pick up the first time she calls”, Marco said, placing the phone on the table next to his cup. Then he pointed at the bookshelf and raised his eyebrows.

“You like reading?”

“Sure, when I’ve got the time. Which is never.”

“I can relate to that, all the books I read nowadays have the word ‘law’ in the title”, Marco chuckled. Jean nodded politely.

“Sounds tedious. Anyway, who’s A?” he asked casually. He pulled another book out of the shelf, examining it, and when Marco didn’t reply, he looked up.

“Huh. Another subject you don’t wanna talk about?” he said bluntly, raising his other eyebrow. Marco was fidgeting his fingers again, but he smiled softly.

“No, it’s fine. I was just surprised of you asking that. He’s the, umm, ex I told you about.” Jean nodded and pulled the _Crime and Punishment_ out. He held it up for Marco to see, and the guy nodded with a sudden realisation.

“Right, yeah. It was a joke of ours, you know, because I study the law…” he explained. He ran his hand over his hair, smoothing it quickly.

“Gotcha. What does A stand for exactly?” Jean opened the book, reading the short paragraph again.

“Armin. Why?”

“Just making sure it’s not anyone I know. So have you read it?”

“Read what?”

“The book”, Jean replied, waving it in the air. Marco chuckled.

“No, I haven’t. Like I said, I don’t have much time to read anything but law books. One day I will, though.” He sounded like he was sorry to admit it, but Jean couldn’t have cared less. He jabbed the book in the shelf and walked back to the couch. When he slumped down, Marco echoed his movements and sat back in the armchair. They stayed like that for a moment, sitting in silence, Jean picking his fingers jadedly. Marco followed his actions closely, suddenly completely out of subjects to talk about. He felt like he needed to say _something_ , so the guy wouldn’t get fed up with him and walk out. After all, the blonde had no obligations to stay; they hadn’t even discussed how long he would stay and how much Marco would pay him. Last time he had shoved a rough amount of money in Jean’s hand, and the guy had counted it quickly before pushing it in his pocket without saying one word.

“So what did your mom want?” Jean suddenly asked without even raising his gaze. He seemed to be really into his nails all of a sudden, looking at them, and Marco felt slightly relieved he didn’t have to stare into his amber eyes. They made his stomach coil with nervousness and his hear flutter in his chest.

“They are, um, having a charity event in a month or so, and she asked me how many tickets should she reserve for me. It’s her way of saying ‘please tell me you’re bringing a date’”, he sighed and shook his head. “And if I don’t, she’s going to set me up with someone.” Jean glanced up and stared at him for a second, before lowering his gaze again. He hummed shortly.

“Charity, huh.”

“Yeah. It’s their thing, kind of like a hobby. They have too much money and time in their hands.”

“Must be nice when you don’t have to worry about money.” The hint of bitterness in Jean’s voice fortunately escaped Marco as he pursed his lips and nodded.

“Sure, makes certain things easier. Like paying for college and such. How are your studies going by the way?” Jean’s jaw tightened, but he forced a smile on his face, which didn’t make it up to his eyes.

“Fine. Look, I gotta get going, man”, he announced and got up, hiding a yawn behind his hand. Marco stumbled up too.

“Now? I mean… Now?” He blinked rapidly, and Jean looked at him with a listless expression.

“Yeah, I got shit to do. Early wake-up and stuff”, he gave a wry smile, “y’know.”

“Am I boring you? Just tell me if that’s the case”, Marco rushed to ask, “I don’t want to bore you.” Jean rolled his eyes and took a deep breath.

“What does it matter? I wouldn’t even be here if you weren’t paying me”, he remarked.

“I know that, you made it clear and I told you before, I’ll pay you anything you want. Just stay, please?” Marco didn’t even try to hide the desperation in his voice, and when Jean made a face to point out what he thought of it, he swallowed hard.

“I know you think I’m pathetic and I know we won’t be friends, but I liked talking with you. Do you know when was the last time I talked about anything else except school with my friends? Because I sure don’t. Either it’s school, or it’s ‘hey check out those tits’ or ‘hey let’s get drunk’ or or or, I don’t know, but it’s never ‘hey want to go check out this new art exhibition’ or ‘hey I just read this interesting article’ or, you know, anything like that.”

“Sounds like you need new friends.” Jean had no trouble mocking people, but when he watched Marco fall silent and his lips pressing together tightly, he felt a little bad. Just a little, but the feeling was there, and it nagged at him until he let out a long sigh.

“Al _right_. Jeez, if you really think talking with me is worth your money, I’ll stay. I’ll stay, okay?” He raised his hands a little and watched as Marco’s lips formed into a smile, his eyes twinkling.

“But you know what? I’m gonna give you that lap dance now.” And then the smile faded, and it was replaced with horror.

“What?” Marco’s voice was flat, and his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. His mouth had suddenly gone dry, and Jean smirked devilishly at him.

“Yeah, I’m gonna do that.”

 

“S-so what am I supposed to do?” Jean had made Marco fetch a chair from the kitchen, which he had placed in the middle of the living room, and the guy was sitting on it now, his whole body tense, knees pressed together tightly. His voice shook slightly when he spoke. Jean was browsing through his phone for proper music, and when he found it, he looked up at Marco, biting his lip. He smiled mischievously.

“You? You need to do _nada_ , just sit back and enjoy.” He hit play, setting the phone on the glass table, and Marco flinched. The music alone was enough to make him tremble awkwardly, and when Jean unzipped his hoodie and threw it on the couch nearby, he whimpered quietly. Jean was wearing the same black t-shirt as last time, only this time the neckline looked like it went much lower and the fabric seemed to hug his lean torso just so. He had even dimmed the lights, for which Marco was actually grateful; the dark would hide his deep red face.

“You need to relax or you’re gonna hurt yourself.” The tone of Jean’s voice was completely different now; it was soft, disarming and seductive, even. The words flowed down his tongue and Marco’s heart was racing at the sound of them. Jean walked to him slowly and bent forward, placing his hands on Marco’s knees. He pushed them apart firmly, Marco giving in with a loud gulp.

“Lean back and relax, yeah?” Jean purred. He winked quickly before he straightened himself, lifting the hem of his shirt with his other hand slightly, before letting it fall back down again. Marco gripped the edges of the chair with both of his hands, and leaned against the back of the chair reluctantly. Jean strutted around the chair, behind Marco, and caressed his shoulder with his long fingers. The touch was light, but it made Marco’s breath get stuck in his throat. He was out of his comfort zone like he had never been, and the way Jean walked behind him, his hand making it from his other shoulder to the other, brushing softly the hair on his neck, was almost too much for him. Then Jean was in front of him again, his lips slightly parted, a tiny small dancing on them.

“My my, you look like someone stuck a pole up your ass”, he chuckled, his voice low. “Maybe this’ll relax you a little.” With that he grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head, ever so slowly. He dropped it on the floor, and watched with growing satisfaction as Marco’s eyes widened.

“You like what you see?” he cooed. Marco was unable to form words, and he let his eyes glide down Jean’s half-naked body, all the way from his Adam’s apple to his hipbones. Jean stretched his arms above his head, just for a show, and Marco stared as his abs flexed under his milky skin, the skinny jeans hanging low on his hips and the waistband of his black boxers showing. Jean let his hands fall, and he made another round around Marco, swaying his body in time with the music, his fingers dancing along Marco’s arm to his neck. He rested both his hands on Marco’s shoulders when he got behind the guy, and slid them down his chest, all the way to his stomach. What made it all worse for Marco was the way Jean’s lips were mere inches away from his ear, his hot breath tickling his skin. He heard the blonde hum softly to the tune of the song, whatever it was; Marco couldn’t really hear it from the blood rushing in his ears. Then Jean’s hands ran back up, his nails pressing softly against Marco, and he paced achingly slow back in front of the brunette. The guy tried to close his legs instinctively, but Jean stepped between them. He extended his index finger and placed it under Marco’s chin, forcing the guy to look up. He was leaning a little to the side, his other knee pressing against Marco’s thigh.

“You okay there?” he murmured, looking down with half-lidded eyes, and Marco nodded rapidly.

“Good, because the fun’s just about to start.” He took a step back and leaned himself down, placing his hands against Marco’s knees, arching his back. He took his face close to Marco’s, and the brunette wanted so badly to close his eyes but couldn’t. He couldn’t, because Jean had the same bedroom eyes as earlier, and they bore straight through him. They made his knees weak, and he was glad he was sitting down, and Jean was enjoying every little reaction he could draw out of the guy. His hands were gliding up now, along Marco’s thighs, and all the brunette could do was stare into his eyes and hope to god he wouldn’t faint. He watched Jean lick his lips teasingly, and then he watched the little drop of saliva glistening on his upper lip. The hands slid almost all the way to his groin, before they were gone, and Jean straightened up. Marco concentrated on his breathing, which seemed to be impossibly difficult.

“Try not to freak out now, yeah?” Jean’s voice came above Marco, and the brunette nodded fast. He stared in a mixture of dread and astonishment as Jean unbuttoned the first button on his jeans. His long fingers worked expertly, and soon the second button popped open too.

“They’re a bit too tight to work in I’m afraid”, Jean spoke softly. He hummed along the music again, unbuttoning the rest swiftly. He swayed his hips, Marco watching him almost hypnotized. He was holding his breath now, gnawing on his lower lip without even noticing. Then Jean slipped his thumbs under the waist of his jeans, made a little suggestive push of his hips towards Marco, and started easing the jeans down. He travelled his hands behind himself and with one fluent movement pulled the jeans off completely. He kicked them off of his feet a little less gracefully, but Marco didn’t even notice. He was too focused on the sudden heat burning his cheeks and his palms sweating. It wasn’t like he _wanted_ to stare at Jean’s crotch, but it was right _there_ , the tight boxers showing Marco more than enough, and _oh god_ now he was moving closer, and the way Jean moved his hips and the fact that he was almost completely naked now made Marco’s mouth run dry. Jean’s hands found support on the brunette’s shoulders, and he flung himself easily on Marco’s lap. He scooted himself as close to Marco as he could, so close he felt Marco’s breath against his chest, their crotches pressed together, and he slid his hands around Marco’s neck, twisting his fingers in the brunette’s neat hair. The whimper that made its way out of Marco’s mouth drew a low chuckle out of Jean. The guy underneath him had forced his eyes shut and he still hadn’t let go of the chair, his knuckles turning white. Jean gently tightened his hold of his hair, making Marco tilt his head back.

“Hey, watching is half the fun, so open your eyes.” And when Marco did, he was met by Jean’s dark eyes, his face hovering above him so close he could almost taste him on his lips. Another whimper from Marco made Jean grin widely at him.

“I haven’t even done anything yet and you’re already about to faint”, he almost whispered, his lips mere inches from Marco’s. All Marco needed was one roll of Jean’s hips and he was biting back a string of whimpers. Jean slid his body up and down against Marco, his hands entwining in the brunette’s hair. Marco couldn’t even hear the music anymore, all he heard and felt was the rhythm of Jean’s body on him, his low voice echoing the words of the song, his hands on his neck, then on his chest, then running down his body, Jean’s face close his, his breath so _hot_ it burnt his skin… His mind was going overdrive, and one thing was for sure. He was going to pop a boner at this, no matter how hard he tried to keep his thoughts contained. The blonde wrapped his feet behind the back legs of the chair, making sure his grip wouldn’t fail, and placing his hands on Marco’s knees behind him, he pushed them apart. Then he started leaning back, arching his back as much as he could, and pushed his hips up. He placed his palms flat against the floor, swaying his body a little, and Marco unwillingly rewarded him with a loud gulp. He was well past trying not to stare like a starving animal at the incredible body on his lap. Instead, he memorised every curve and every muscle of it, the sharp hipbones, the Adam’s apple on his beautiful neck and the well-defined collarbone. He had a thing for bones, he couldn’t help it. He drank in the view of how Jean’s ribs were just barely visible under his skin, how his thigh muscles tightened around Marco and his abs flexed as he suddenly pulled himself up, like it was nothing, his face a mix of smugness and a little flirt. His hands were behind his head and he flicked his tongue at Marco. The brunette caught a glimpse of something shiny, and suddenly Jean was close to him again, his hands making it down his biceps, all the way to his hands, where they forced him to let go of the chair. When Jean let go of them, Marco let them drop uselessly on his sides, Jean winking at him quickly. Jean’s mouth was slightly open, and Marco saw the silvery ball resting on his tongue. A tongue piercing. _Oh god_. His dizzy train of thought was cut short as Jean slipped off his lap. He stood up, watching as Marco followed his every move incessantly. He ran both his hands through his hair, the act achingly slow, and his eyes never left Marco’s. They were burning with something that terrified Marco but it also, _god help me_ , aroused him, and when Jean lowered himself on his lap again, both his legs on the same side this time, he took a sharp breath. Jean lingered only for a second, before he tossed the other leg on the other side of Marco, his back to the brunette now. He rested himself against Marco’s chest, and he stretched his other hand behind him and ran it through Marco’s hair, the other resting on the side of his thigh underneath him, and he caressed it softly. He was moving up and down slowly, and that was it for Marco. Blood rushed to his cock with a force, waking it up entirely, and as Jean’s ass rubbed against his crotch firmly, he hoped to whatever god was up there to end his immensely painful yet pleasurable misery here. It was a matter of seconds before Jean would notice and Marco was burning bright red now, his gut tightening, and the feeling was too much but not enough and he was biting his lip so hard, trying not to make a sound. And then he failed; a half-whimper, half-moan springing out as his mouth dropped open and his whole body tensed. He squeezed his hands into fists, trying to form words, but Jean wouldn’t give him a break. He wanted to make the blonde _stop_ and no he didn’t, but he needed him to stop, and when Jean circled his ass against him, his hands flew to the guy’s waist. Jean didn’t stop him, for the guy had been a good kid and not touched him once yet, and his whole body was snaking over Marco now. He had promised the guy a lap dance of his life and he was going to live up to his promise. He had tilted his head to the side, the tip of his nose fluttering over Marco’s cheek, followed by his lips. They barely touched his skin, but the feeling jolted through Marco’s body like an electric shock. Both of the blonde’s hands were on his thighs now, and the way Jean was squeezing them made him lose it.

“Oh g-god”, was all that came out. His fingers dug into Jean’s sides as he twitched violently, his head falling forward against Jean’s shoulder with a breathy moan. Jean slowed down, listening to the brunette breathe heavily, before he cleared his throat.

“Marco”, he spoke. The brunette didn’t reply, his sweaty hands still holding onto Jean.

“You didn’t just come in your pants, did ya?”

“Oh _god_ ”, was the reply he got, and he couldn’t stop himself snorting loudly.

“ _Oh god_ ”, the brunette whimpered, more desperately this time, and Jean stood up slowly, Marco’s hands finally letting go of him. He jumped up and pushed past Jean as he ran to the bathroom.

 

“Come on, it’s fine. You’re not the first one that has happened to, trust me.” Jean knocked softly on the bathroom door for the third time, but Marco still wasn’t coming out. He mumbled an unintelligible response and Jean rested his back against the door.

“Seriously, you don’t need to freak out so bad”, he sighed.

“You’re going to laugh at me”, the guy finally spoke, loudly enough for Jean to hear it through the door. He held back a long sigh.

“I won’t, I promise”, he told Marco, holding his fingers crossed just in case. There was a momentarily silence and then Marco rustled the door open. Jean leaned off and turned to face the guy.

“Don’t laugh at me”, Marco said with a pitiful expression. He was staring at his feet, and Jean noticed how he had combed his hair back in place. He had to bite back a smile.

“I won’t!”

“I haven’t, um, really been with anyone since my ex, so…” the guy hesitated and wrapped his arms around himself.

“It’s fine. Look, it happens more often than not, really.” That might or might not have been partly a lie, but Jean tried his best to be encouraging, and some part of it seemed to work as Marco lifted his gaze and looked a little less mortified. Jean cracked a smile at him, but it was obviously too early, because his face flushed and he looked uncomfortable to say the least.

“Besides, it’s a compliment. Kinda. Tells me I’m good at my job”, Jean tried with a wink, but that didn’t do much convincing Marco. The guy just groaned weakly and shook his head, wrapping his hands tighter around himself. He didn’t say anything, just let his eyes fall to his feet again, and Jean strained his brain trying to come up with something to defuse the situation. He had at least the decency to not mock his customers about these things, not to their faces anyway, and he felt horribly awkward all of a sudden. He was surprised he could even feel awkwardness since he was the one who made other people feel awkward most of the time. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the guy had said _something_ , but he was just standing there, not saying anything and not really doing anything either. Jean was staring at Marco’s feet now, too, because he didn’t know where else to look. He kind of pitied the loser, and that was definitely new.

“And you know, saved me the trouble of blowing you anyway.” It was supposed to be a joke; he’d say something dumb and _not_ insulting and they’d have a laugh, but the way Marco raised his gaze, his eyes widened and his shoulders tense, made Jean regret it immediately. He tried to smile at the guy, but it was forced and something in Marco’s expression told him he didn’t take it as a joke.

“I mean…” he started, but Marco blinked rapidly, his mouth falling open.

“What?” he asked.

“What?” Jean echoed flatly.

“What do you mea—”

“Idon’tknowwhachatalkingabout.”

“You said…” Marco’s eyebrows had shot up now, and he looked sincerely confused.

“No I didn’t”, Jean shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry. If possible, the confusion only deepened in Marco’s face, and he even looked a little worried. Jean flashed him a painful smile, one that made Marco worry more than a little.

“Are you okay?” he asked carefully, and Jean nodded, grinding his teeth together, the smile turning into a grimace. Well, this was going smoothly. _Well done, Kirschtein_. The guy was so clueless it hurt, but it wouldn’t take him long to add the things up. And for some reason Jean didn’t want to be anywhere near then, not when the questions would start forming. He lifted his finger and pointed vaguely at the general direction of the front door, his brow furrowing and mouth opening but no words coming out, and since the questions were already so close of falling out of Marco, he just made a run for it. Without saying a word Jean escaped the situation, grabbing his shoes and jacket as he jolted out of the apartment. Not the best idea he had ever had, but the stupefied face on Marco was a little too much to deal with. Hell, the whole guy was a little too much to deal with. He didn’t even bother with a taxi because it would’ve meant stopping, so he half-ran through the whole city back to his place. He didn’t think he had ever made it anywhere so fast. And it was only after he got inside his apartment that he realised he had left his phone behind.

 

It was a little over four in the morning when Jean woke up, drenched in sweat. His hair was stuck on his forehead, his heartbeat feeling like a drum in his chest. It was dark, and it took Jean a while before his eyes got used to it. He sat up and concentrated on the shadows crawling across the floor and the walls. He stared at them until they stopped moving around and looking hostile. He tasted blood in his mouth, and for a second he was sure it hadn’t been a dream, but when he felt his cheeks inside his mouth with his tongue, he noticed he had bit himself in his sleep. The edges of the dream lingered in his mind until they turned to dust and faded to the darkness. He hadn’t had that nightmare since he had stopped using. Back then, the nightmare haunted him every time he closed his eyes; it was always there, waiting in the back of his mind. He stopped sleeping, but the dream still hunt him down like prey wherever he went, whatever he did. Then he started seeing it when he was awake, the images flashing in his eyes like he was watching a movie he couldn’t pause. He stuffed his veins full of crap and snorted up everything he got in his reach, but the images got more and more vivid until he was on the verge of losing his mind. He had stood on the edge, ready to jump to make it all just _stop_ , but staring down into the figurative abyss he hadn’t been able to. He had had a twin brother. The only person in his family that had meant something to him, the only person in the _world_ that had meant something, because he had meant _everything_. He was five minutes older and always remembered to remind Jean about it. They fought a lot, like only siblings could, but Jean looked up to him, he admired the guy with all he had. He learned everything from him, like how to smoke a cigarette, how to do stupid coin tricks, how to not get caught when sneaking out. He was definitely bad influence on Jean when growing up, and sometimes Jean wondered if things had gone differently if he hadn’t been such a sheep. He followed John everywhere like a goddamn puppy, and in those days he didn’t really have an identity. He was just _John’s brother_ , and that suited him just fine. He wanted to be like John, all the way to even the same haircut. Now that he thought about it, he wished he hadn’t. He wished he hadn’t been so dependent of the guy. When they had turned 13, Jean had told John he was gay. When John asked how long had he known, Jean replied “always”. John didn’t judge him and told no one, but he stopped taking Jean out with him and his friends. He made him stay home, but never gave a reason why, not even when Jean confronted him about it. The truth was he was afraid his friends might find out and beat Jean up for it. For fun. To make a point. To scare him. To teach him a lesson. Jean was still a little naïve, a little innocent and still definitely in the belief that the world was a good place, and John was protective of him and a little less naïve.

 

Jean didn’t know how to miss John. He felt a throbbing pain in his chest every time he as much as thought about the guy, but he didn’t miss him. Not really. Even the pain had started to numb down, and it made him sad, because it was the only thing he had left of John. After what had happened, he had grown up and concealed all the emotions under a sarcastic bark and an angry face. He had had to. He had sworn to himself to never look back, to never _turn_ back. He left everything behind, everything he once was, everything that had happened to him, everything he fucking had. He walked out of the house with the clothes on him, a pack of cigarettes and twenty dollars. He still remembered how his mother had opened the door to yell after him after he had slammed it shut behind him. His mother always kept the façade up, she never let anyone outside the family to see under her poker face, but at that moment, she had let the act fall. And all the neighbours could hear and see it. Jean couldn’t remember exactly what was that she had said, but he remembered the screaming. Oh, the _screaming_. He hadn’t turned around to look at her, he had kept on walking until his feet had ached, and he had sworn to keep on walking as long as he lived.

 

And now he had had the same nightmare that had been gone for so long, and he was forced to live the moments of John dying in his arms again and again and again. The dream circulated behind his lids when he closed his eyes, and he screamed into his pillow. He was forced to remember the way John’s eyes had gone dull, his head falling completely back and the blood slowly soaking both of their shirts. He pressed the pillow harder on his face, so hard he couldn’t breathe. And he was forced to remember every fucking detail, the nauseating smell of the blood, the screams of his mother, the way John’s body collapsed on the bathroom floor, completely limp and still when their father yanked Jean up by the collar of his shirt. He couldn’t breathe. And then he remembered John before he cut his wrists open.

“We’ll do this together, right Jean?”

“Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAS IT SEXY? BECAUSE I actually tried the one move with the hands on the floor AND IT'S DOABLE APPARENTLY BUT HOLY SHIT my back almost cracked. I'm as flexible as a brick wall so... No. The things I do for fanfiction. Also I've only given one lapdance in my life and I was drunk and wearing a wig so yeah, I'm no expert. If you wanna hear more about that, hit me up at [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Careful, Jean. Even Icarus got himself killed by flying too close to the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I had a massive writer's block. Buuuut it's gone now and it's gone with a bang, as this is almost 8000 words long.

Whatever it was that kept Jean up rest of the night had disappeared by the time Monday morning crawled in through the windows, chasing the shadows away. He was staring blankly at his ceiling when his old alarm clock went off. Against all odds, Jean was able to make it out of his bed and his apartment, and he sat inattentively through all his lectures. He copied everything said and written on the blackboard like a zombie, his mind empty. He had already fallen behind practically on every class, and he did the unthinkable and talked to one of his fellow students after the last class. He picked the most harmless looking kid who didn’t look at him like he was carrying a disease that might wipe the humanity off the face of the Earth. He did look a little uncomfortable, but loaned his notes to Jean anyway. In exchange Jean was forced to give the guy his number in case he’d accidentally burn the notes or something, and he didn’t mention the fact that his phone was currently located in an unreachable place. He was going to bring the notes back tomorrow, no big deal.

 

Back home he put on music, the loudest stuff he could find from his laptop and blared it to zero out everything in his mind. He concentrated on the noise tearing his head apart instead of letting his thoughts wander. He wasn’t going to handle these things, not now, not ever. He didn’t want to know why the nightmare had reappeared now of all times, he didn’t want to know anything. All he wanted was to keep his thoughts in order and under control and he would be fine. Maybe do some really heavy drinking to result in a home-made amnesia. That’s where the drugs had helped; they had erased some things he needed to forget, even though they only got him so far. Eventually it had all come back and he had run out of ideas to make himself forget. And now he sat in the middle of his shitty apartment, the music making him feel nauseous and his ears ache, but he didn’t turn it down. He couldn’t think anymore with the slowly forming headache and that was good. He’d do a shift today; he’d go to work and maybe take home some harmless regular and fuck him all night. He’d stay up as long as he would need to; as long as it would take to make sure the nightmare wasn’t coming back. He was already exhausted, but if he stayed up long enough, he would be too tired to even have dreams. He’d ask Ymir or Christa get his phone one day, or hell, maybe he’d just buy a new one, he had thought about changing his number anyway. There were only a handful of people who needed it, and only Ymir, Christa and Connie ever called him. Minus Connie.

 

Jean pressed his hands on his temples. Not Connie, he wasn’t going to think about Connie. The music stopped for a second before a new song started, and it was even faster and more brutal than the previous one, and Jean forgot whatever it was he had been thinking about. The singer emitted an ear-splitting scream lasting several moments, and it probably scared half of the building shitless as it pierced through the thin walls and made the windows rattle. Jean’s ears were ringing by now, and he wondered apathetically if he should be worried of damaging his hearing permanently. After three or so songs later he finally hit stop, the ringing in his ears so loud it made his head spin. He stumbled up and fell face flat on his bed. He lied there, staring at the wall next to the bed, and let time flow over him. He wasn’t sure if it had been five minutes or half an hour, but suddenly there was a soft knock on his door, too soft to be an angry neighbour. Either that or it was an angry neighbour disguised as someone not-angry so Jean would unsuspectingly open his door and get yelled at. Maybe even punched, some of his neighbours were surprisingly strong and feisty considering they were mostly old people. The second knock was a little louder, but still not loud enough to be demanding. However, Jean put his legs into work and made it to the door. He swung it open, and Marco flashed him a smile that portrayed so many things that Jean was overwhelmed by them all. Apparently it was possible for a person to look apologetic, happy and a little scared at the same time.

“Hey,” the brunette spoke, adjusting the huge, grey scarf wrapped around his neck. He was still smiling, and Jean hadn’t yet quite decided if he should slam the door in his face or not.

“I brought your phone.” Maybe Marco had read his mind, or maybe not, but he continued quickly before Jean had time to form a response. He fished the phone out of his coat’s pocket and extended it to Jean. The blonde took it, still silent, and turned the screen on.

“I-I kept it charged, just in case,” Marco blurted the words nervously, and Jean looked up from his phone to the guy.

“Huh,” he replied unenthusiastically.

“I can explain.” Marco was fidgeting the edges of his sleeves, and he looked a little tensed up. Jean blinked slowly.

“Huh?”

“Can, uh, can I come in?” Marco adjusted the scarf again, tugging it lower. He felt hot under the clothes, although the corridor wasn’t particularly warm. The landlady was a cheap bastard when it came to heating.

“Umm…” Jean stuck his head into the corridor and looked around for any nosy neighbours eavesdropping before letting out a long sigh. “Fine.”

 

It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. When Marco took off his coat and other winter-y accessories and walked to the living slash bedroom, Jean felt a little embarrassed. So _maybe_ he didn’t want people to think he was a pig living in filth even though it really looked like it. He was a clean person when it came to personal hygiene, but laziness won in most cases against the need to clean his apartment. Marco would have lied if he said he wasn’t a little taken aback by the mess, but being a nice person he just smiled and eyed for something to sit on. The couch. Jean followed the guy’s train of thought and darted to throw everything on it on the floor to make room. Marco sat down all the while trying not to think about the weird stains on the cushions, and Jean watched his every move intensely.

“I spilled coffee,” he mumbled when he caught Marco staring at the stains just slightly too long.

“Oh. Yeah, it doesn’t come off too easily,” he laughed politely. A silence fell between them, Jean standing in place and fiddling his fingers, his mind still a black hole sucking his mind empty of any thoughts, and Marco now not trying to think about the pile of dirty clothes at his feet. He thought he saw a pair of boxers and it made him sweat a little.

“So… You said you were gonna explain something,” Jean broke the silence and made Marco look up. His face brightened with an epiphany.

“Right, yeah. About your phone…”

“Wait. How’d you know where I live?”

“That’s what I was going to explain. I… I called your friend, but listen—”

“My friend? Which friend? With _my_ phone?”

“Nonono, I didn’t use your phone, I—”

“Which friend? Which friend did you call?” Thoughts were finally forming in Jean’s head and he was beginning to freak out now, as usual. Marco had raised his hands in front of him as a conciliatory gesture and he opened his mouth.

“I-I-I think his name was Connie. I didn’t say anything! Just that you, you left your phone at my place. I told him we’re both studying psychology and he didn’t ask anything. Only sounded surprised when I said we were friends. I wasn’t going to say anything like that, but I thought it would sound more believable. Are you angry?” The last words Marco stuttered threw Jean off balance, and he blinked rapidly.

“No, I’m… No.” People didn’t usually ask him _if_ he was angry but rather _why_ was he angry, and Marco staring at him with huge, brown puppy eyes made Jean remind himself he _hated_ puppies. Or at least disliked them greatly.

“I got the number from your phone, from your favourite contacts. I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do. I told him my name was Armin!”

“You did? Why?” Jean’s face twisted with astonishment.

“Because I panicked! Because, well, in case we were to ever run into each other accidentally or something. He wouldn’t know it was me…” Marco trailed off as he watched with an uneasy feeling Jean’s eyes widening. What he didn’t expect was the blonde to burst into laughter.

“What? What’s so funny, what did I say?” he asked, but relaxed considerably as he realized Jean wasn’t going to shout at him. The blonde laughed for some time, before he ran his hands through his hair and rolled his eyes amusedly. Marco couldn’t help but smile at the guy, who shook his head and chuckled quietly. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

“You, you are—I don’t even have words to describe you, Marco,” he bit his lower lip and wiped the corner of his eye. “You’re something else entirely.”

“What? How? I don’t understand,” Marco asked with a hint of confusion in his voice, but at the same time he was relieved to see the guy laughing. It had to be a first, a genuine one at least. He had begun to think Jean never smiled or laughed except in a mocking manner.

“You told him your name was _Armin_ , seriously. For fuck’s sake. I probably should be mad as hell but you’re such a nerd I’m gonna let it pass this once.” Jean blew the air out of his lungs slowly and shook his head again. Marco huffed as if insulted, but the smile on his lips gave him away.

“Still, I’m sorry about it. I didn’t do anything else I swear. You can take a look at my phone if that would make you feel better.” He got up and pulled the phone out of his pocket, holding it out for Jean. His face was glowing with sincerity, and Jean shook his head, giving him a half-smile.

“Nah, man, unless you have like nudes or sexts there, I’m not interested. Thanks, though.” Another joke that made Marco’s eyes widen as he froze momentarily. This time Jean didn’t lose his cool, and he stuck his tongue out and smiled devilishly. Marco’s gaze focused on the guy’s tongue piercing.

“I’m kidding, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Marco echoed blankly, raising his gaze to meet his eyes as the tongue disappeared back into Jean’s mouth, and the blonde snorted.

“C’mon Toblerone boy, don’t freak out now.”

“Aw, don’t call me that! And that reminds me…” Marco kept a dramatic pause before he continued, “ _Someone_ ran out of my apartment yesterday and—”

“And we’re not talking about it, unless _someone_ wants be reminded of _someone_ staining their jeans.”

“First of all, they weren’t jeans, they were _khakis_ —” Jean let out a loud _ha_ at Marco’s word choice, but the brunette ignored him, “and secondly, you promised you wouldn’t laugh!”

“I’m not laughing, see,” Jean pointed at his face, looking as serious as he could manage. Marco narrowed his eyes and pouted his lips.

“That includes all kind of mocking and fun-making.”

“Jeez, mister grumpy pants—sorry, I mean mister grumpy _khakis_. I won’t mock you.” Jean pressed his right hand on his chest where his heart was and raised his left hand. “I swear.” The gesture made Marco giggle, and yet again Jean couldn’t help but notice his dimples. He made a mental note to stop doing that. They stood in silence for a while, but this time it wasn’t half bad. For some reason Marco reminded Jean of Connie again, and he winced at the thought.

“You want something? Like… I dunno, tap water?” he offered, and the brunette blinked in surprise.

“Ah. Well, coffee would be nice. I have a date with Armin, um, my ex, but—”

“Oh.”

“—it’s not until six, so I have time.” He sat back down again, and Jean rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly.

“You, um, you like instant coffee?” Jean could tell by the way Marco’s face fell that no, he really didn’t, but the guy forced a brave smile on anyway. Again with the dimples.

“Sure, I suppose.”

 

“How does your coffee taste?” Jean tried not to laugh in his cup when his question made Marco look up from the black ooze in his cup. He hadn’t even tasted it, and he looked too scared to do so. Conveniently enough, Jean had no sugar and no milk, but Marco was too polite to turn the offered beverage down. He looked down in the cup again, swallowing.

“It’s… Well, it’s black.”

“Too strong for your liking?” Jean hummed lightly. He had to admit, though, it was a little bitter. The emphasis not so much on the _little_ as on the _bitter_ Not only was he a terrible cook, but he couldn’t even prepare things that had words such as _super easy_ at the side of the packet.

“It’s, it’s fine. I really should cut down the amount of sugar I use, anyway. It’s unhealthy,” Marco smiled sheepishly.

“That’s it, give it to me,” Jean sighed and leaned off the wall he had been slouching against, walking to Marco. He grabbed the cup from his hands and ignoring Marco’s weak-ass resists, he poured both their cups’ contents down the drain in his kitchen sink.

“I was going to drink it,” Marco mumbled, and blushed when Jean made it back to the room and rolled his eyes. Neither of them believed him.

“You’re the worst liar ever. That stuff is shit, I know. I really should buy a proper coffeemaker,” Jean sighed.

“Hey, that reminds me… I-I never paid you for yesterday.” Marco was quickly on his feet, and he fetched his wallet from his coat, and opening it, he counted the money inside. Jean was a little surprised he hadn’t even thought about that, the payment, but he blamed it on… Well, he would figure out later what to blame it on.

“How much do I owe you?” Marco looked up questioning, and Jean shrugged lazily.

“I dunno, fifty for the lap dance—”

“Fifty dollars?”

“Too much? I included my therapist’s fee, I need to tell her how bad you _traumatized_ me.”

“N-no, I thought, I mean, it doesn’t sound much…” It took a moment for Marco to register the rest of the comment, and he gasped. “And you _promised_!” He sounded mortified, and it made Jean laugh. Marco didn’t appreciate it too much, and Jean quietened down quickly, a little smirk still playing on his lips.

“Sorry. And of course I meant to say fifty hundred.” He grinned, but Marco wrinkled his nose, squinting at him. Jean shrugged again. “I dunno, I usually get a solid ten per dance. It’s the tips they give me that count. I included your tips in the fifty because you seem like you’d tip a lot, since you know you’ll be making a mess.”

“ _Jean_!” Marco cried out.

“Sorry, I just can’t seem to control myself today,” Jean chuckled. “I’ll stop now I promise.” The smug smile on his face widened, and Marco glared at him, his cheeks flustered. He narrowed his eyes, and Jean forced the stupid grin off his face and cleared his throat. “I promise!”

“You better,” Marco pointed his finger at him, and the blonde quickly drew his thumb and index finger across his lips, pressing his lips together tightly. Marco nodded approvingly, and then cleared his throat a bit. “But uh, if you don’t mind me saying, that doesn’t sound like a lot.” Jean made a “wacha gonna do” face, cocking his head to the side, and Marco blinked rapidly in response.

“And that doesn’t bother you?” He looked a little embarrassed when he realised just how surprised he sounded, but Jean didn’t seem to notice. He just shrugged lopsidedly.

“I mean what am I to do? It’s shit but it’s better than, say, flipping hamburgers. Besides, it’s not the dancing that pays the bills anyway.”

“Oh?” The careful tone of Marco’s wasn’t lost on Jean, and he wondered briefly whether he should just drop the subject. But maybe it was the late events or maybe it was Marco looking at him with those puppy eyes once again, or maybe he just wanted to shock him, shake his sheltered world to the core. He could see the curiosity swelling in Marco’s head, his mouth ready to fly open and drown him in all kinds of questions, so he just tilted his head to the side and shrugged.

“Yeah, y’know…” he spoke. “It’s the other services I provide.”

“Like…?”

“Like don’t make me say it out loud or do the gesture,” Jean clicked his tongue and drew a short breath between his teeth.

“What gesture?” The way Marco looked at him, his eyes huge and so damn oblivious was almost hilarious. Jean rolled his eyes and sighed. Marco was asking for it, he really was. So Jean raised his hand squeezed into a loose fist in front of his mouth, and pushed his tongue in his cheek.

“ _Oh_.” Yeah, Marco was definitely familiar with the gesture, and he couldn’t hide his embarrassment. “But—yesterday…”

“Yes, don’t mention it,” Jean shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “You’re not exactly a textbook example of my regular customer.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means your kind don’t pay for my kind to provide them such services. I shouldn’t have… Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that,” Jean explained hastily and Marco nodded shortly.

“Does, um, does that pay you enough, then?” He was trying _so hard_ not to think about Jean’s job description, not the details anyway, because quite frankly it horrified him. He pretended they were talking about a regular nine-to-five job, and not doing _that_ for money. He knew that he didn’t know much of what strippers did, but until now he had thought they only, well, stripped.

“It pays what it pays. Y’think I’d live like this if it paid me well?” To emphasize his words, Jean spread his hands, and Marco took a quick look around. He wanted to say something nice, like _it could be worse_ , but then he realised Jean would never buy it. Instead he just nodded.

“Why do you do it then? Why don’t you find—” Before Marco could finish, Jean raised his hand, making the brunette swallow the rest of the sentence.

“Why don’t I find another job? Jeez, Marco, hadn’t thought about that option, how silly of me.” Jean slapped his forehead, which made Marco turn up his nose. Always with the sarcasm. “You find me another job that’s as flexible as this one and I’ll take it. Oh, and one that doesn’t require me to sign my name on anything, not to mention completely free of taxes. Yeah, you show me one and I’ll take it.”

“You don’t pay taxes?” For some reason Marco picked up that out of everything Jean said, and the blonde snorted.

“Right, of course I do. For every blowjob I give, they take ten percent. Shit, I forgot, you’re a to-be lawyer, right? Shouldn’t have probably told you that.” Jean grinned, and this time Marco rolled his eyes quickly.

“As a to-be lawyer, I don’t care if you don’t pay taxes, unless you get caught doing that and need to hire me to get you out of trouble,” his lips drew into a smile that was nothing if not a little smug.

“No offense kid, but I’d probably go with someone more, well,” Jean pondered, eyeing Marco from head to toe, and the brunette raised his eyebrows in anticipation. “More intimidating.”

“I can be scary!” Marco sounded almost offended, and he crossed his arms across his chest with a huff. He even furrowed his brow, and Jean suppressed a laugh.

“Yeah, like kittens can be scary. They _think_ they’re scary while everyone else thinks they’re just adorable.”

“Not fair. Your work self and real self aren’t anything alike, either. I know that for a fact.” The smirk was back in the brunette’s lips and he looked way too pleased with himself. Jean shook his head, giving the guy a pitying look, but the smile didn’t fade from Marco’s face.

“Psh. I don’t think you got what it takes to be a hard-ass lawyer,” Jean commented.

“Well I think you’re wrong,” Marco stated proudly. There were many things of which he was unsure, even insecure, but this was not one of them. The day he had learned to talk he had wanted to become a lawyer. Sometimes his parents – who were obviously so very proud of their prodigy son – joked that his first word had been “law”. It was the only thing in his life that had remained the same, even when he was confused about everything else, even his sexuality. No, Marco Bodt was going to be a lawyer and a damn good one, too. He was all ready to argue Jean down, but fortunately the blonde wasn’t in the mood to disagree too strongly. He just inhaled slowly and gave a “whatever” look.

“So how about you just pay me before you forget it again?” Jean ran his hand through his hair, scratching his head idly.

“Oh, yeah,” Marco fumbled his wallet open, and he took out a fifty. Then he hesitated, looking at Jean. “How much did you say again?”

“Fifty plus whatever it was you paid me last time. Plus VAT, since I’m an honest tax-paying citizen,” Jean said, winking quickly, and Marco shook his head at the stupid grin on his face, letting out a sigh. He smiled shortly, though, and pulled out a couple of perfectly smooth bills and gave them to Jean, who accepted them happily. This time he didn’t even count them, just wrinkled them and pushed them in his pocket.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, and Marco nodded. The wallet disappeared into his pocket, and his phone came out. He checked the screen, and pouted his lips.

“It’s almost half past five, I think I need to get going.”

“’Kay,” Jean shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Thanks for the coffee, please buy a coffeemaker,” Marco grinned and chuckled when Jean stuck his tongue out, wrinkling his nose.

“One of these days,” he replied. Marco pointed his index finger to his own mouth and blinked.

“Did that hurt?” His eyes widened a little as Jean extended his tongue out as far as it would go and snaked it around. He smirked.

“This? Nah, not really,” he responded. “Between that and the septum, I’d say the septum hurt more.”

“Septum?” Marco looked confused, and Jean pointed at his nose.

“Bull ring,” he simply stated. “I have a retainer ‘cause of work.”

“Oh.”

“Can’t have any visible piercings or they might get stuck on things, like handsy customers.” Jean sneered. “One guy got his nipple nearly ripped in half once.” Marco winced visibly. He almost threw his hands over his own nipples, but restrained himself.

“That sounds bad,” he commented. “Not to mention painful.” Jean grinned.

“Don’t worry, he survived. Anyway, I’m getting mine done the second I quit my job.”

“So you like piercings?”

“Yeah, love ‘em. Tattoos aren’t my thing, but piercings, man.” Jean shoved his hands a little deeper in his pockets. “They can make anyone look good.”

“Even me?” Marco inquired with a wide smile. Jean laughed.

“Even you I s’pose,” he said, amused, and Marco chuckled. “But your parents would disapprove no doubt.” The comment made Marco huff, and he rubbed his neck.

“Yes, they would lose their _minds_. When my cousin had his ears pierced at 18, they told him only _homosexuals_ do that,” he shook his head, knitting his brows. “Can you imagine that?”

“Unfortunately I can,” Jean answered, his face now serious. Marco opened his mouth, but deciding he would ask about it later, snapped his mouth back shut. The guy did not look like he wanted to talk about the subject further.

“Anyway, I really have to go now. Armin doesn’t like people being late,” he then explained, a sheepish smile spreading across his face.

“Cool,” Jean hummed shortly. They walked to the door, and Jean watched Marco put on his coat and wrap the scarf around his neck. When he was all dressed up, he turned to face Jean. The blonde still had his hands in his pockets, and he smacked his lips idly.

“Well… I’ll be seeing you, then?” Marco wondered if he really had meant the words to come out in the form of a question, but since Jean only nodded in response, he assumed it didn’t matter. He opened the door and made it outside. Jean was furiously trying to think of something to say, anything, and when Marco gave him a small smile before starting to close the door, he swallowed thickly.

“Next time the coffee’s on you,” he blurted, instantly feeling indescribably stupid at the idiotic comment. Even the blowjob comment last night had been less clumsy. It stopped Marco in his tracks, though, and he smiled a little wider.

“I insist.” He reflected a moment before he continued. “If, if you’re not busy tonight, I could… You could… Come over?” Marco felt nervousness coil in the pit of his stomach and wondered if he was maybe too presumptuous. This relationship of theirs was strictly business, so to speak, and he worried his words could be interpreted as getting too friendly. He didn’t want to scare the guy, not now that everything was going so nicely. But Jean looked unaffected by his question, and he only shrugged.

“I got a shift tonight,” he told the brunette. “And I work late.”

“Ah. Some other time then.”

“I don’t work until ten or eleven, though,” Jean resumed, and he honestly wasn’t sure why he said it. It couldn’t be because of the disappointed frown on the guy’s face, but when his lips turned into a half-smile, Jean fought back a smile of his own. He cleared his throat and rubbed his face, stifling a yawn. Marco tilted his head a little to the side.

“Do you want to have some coffee before—”

“ _Please_ , I’m so fucking tired,” Jean groaned. “I dunno how I’m supposed to stay awake for another eight hours or so.” Marco looked sympathetic and nodded.

“I won’t be more than an hour, will you be home then?”

“Where else? Yeah, I’ll be here.”

“I’ll pick you up, then?” Marco asked, raising his eyebrows. Jean made an o with his index finger and thumb.

“Ye,” he agreed. Marco smiled and pushed the door closed with a soft click. When he was gone, Jean stared the door, suddenly completely baffled by what had just happened. What was that? It was unexpected what it was, and he couldn’t help but feel that this was some kind of a date instead of their usual deal. He was getting sloppy, way too sloppy, and that always led to trouble. But at least he was getting coffee out of it.

 

Three hours later he hadn’t heard a word from Marco, and although he told himself that this was _good_ , he didn’t need any extra socialising (just some coffee), he felt a little offended. It was common decency to not keep people waiting or at least inform them if you were going to be late or not coming at all. He was chatting with Christa to kill time, eating noodles and lounging around the apartment. He felt bored and nervous at the same time, and every time there was a noise outside his door, he stiffened. Every time his phone beeped for a new message from Christa, he expected to see Marco’s name. No, nope, nothing. There was a dead silence at his end, and Jean briefly complained to Christa how fucking tired he was. The girl sent him a sad smiley and an encouraging line. He didn’t respond, just threw himself on his couch and buried his face in his hands. He might just as well get to work a little earlier and maybe he could leave earlier, too. It was probably going to be a slow night, or so Jean found himself hoping for. He told himself he would wait until half past nine and then he would leave, maybe get an energy drink from the close-by corner store to make it through the night alive and awake.

 

Ten minutes before half the familiar soft knock on the door awoke Jean. He realised he had snoozed off, and he got up groggily. Sure enough, Marco was standing behind his door, holding a big take away cup in his hand. The smile on his lips was definitely apologetic, even more than usually.

“I’m sorry, Jean,” he started, and Jean covered his mouth, yawning widely.

“’S okay, I completely forgot about you anyway.” He didn’t know if he told the lie for his own sake or Marco’s. The guy looked at Jean empathically.

“Were you sleeping?” he asked, and Jean hummed in response.

“I dozed off,” he mumbled. Marco held the cup out for him.

“I got you some coffee,” he spoke, softly, and Jean took the hot cup. The smell was enough to wake him up from his hazy state, and he thanked the guy. Then he finally looked at Marco properly, and even though his dark brown hair was, as always, neat and in order, it was sticking up a little from the side.

“Damn,” Jean grinned. “You got laid, didncha?” Marco blushed violently at the comment, his entire face turning deep red. His eyes widened and he blinked rapidly, all the while Jean smirking down on him. “I knew it.”

“N-no, I don’t know what you’re—”

“You can’t lie to me, Marco, it’s written all over your face. Just admit it.” He took a sip of the coffee, breathing in the warm scent. Marco swallowed hard, the palms of his hands sweating.

“How could you tell?” His voice trembled, and he felt a drop of sweat run down his neck.

“You got the look on your face. The look of ‘I just got some’. Was it your ex?” Jean asked casually.

“Yeah,” Marco admitted embarrassedly. Jean clicked his tongue, and Marco’s gaze fell on the floor.

“I take the date went well.”

“We were supposed to just talk about things, about, well, about what happened between us. The break-up wasn’t exactly a very tidy one, and I felt bad, so I-I wanted to clear the air.”

“From where I’m standing, it sounds like you did a damn fine job,” Jean grinned lazily.

“I don’t know. I don’t, we can’t… We can’t get back together. And he knows it, and this—this was definitely a mistake.” Marco let out a low sigh and ran his hand over his smooth hair. He was still looking down, and Jean stared at his face, eyeing the tiny freckles spread over his nose and cheeks. The red hue had faded off his face, and he looked a little pale under those spots. Jean whistled quietly, tapping the lid of the cup with his thumb.

“Well, worst comes to worst, at least you got some booty.” Jean Kirschtein, ladies and gentlemen, the master of comfort. “Shit happens.” He shrugged, and Marco smiled forcedly.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing,” he murmured, pulling his scarf a little higher so that it covered his mouth. Jean bit back an exasperated sigh.

“Jesus, you loser. Just come in, I’m not leaving for another hour or so.” Well, so much for going to work earlier. This was probably a bad idea, considering that Jean was a lousy listener and even lousier comforter. When Marco looked up, Jean raised his finger, narrowing his eyes. “But no crying.” The brunette nodded without a word, but the anxiety plastered over his features was starting to melt.

 

Jean let Marco pour his worries and thoughts over him, and he listened silently, drinking his coffee. He did actually listen this time, watching closely and making tiny observations about the brunette as he talked about Armin and the frustration the guy made him feel. He spoke fondly of the other guy, and it was obvious to Jean that Marco was very, very much hung on Armin. He could understand how, but he couldn’t understand _why_. When Marco fell quiet for a long time, Jean asked about it.

“What do you mean why?” Marco’s voice was flat and colourless, and his face was expressionless. Jean was used to seeing every emotion portrayed loud and clear under those freckles, but now he was just a blank canvas. Jean shrugged hastily.

“I mean why, why do you miss him so bad? He dumped you, didn’t he.” He worried his lower lip. “He hurt you, just forget about him and move on.” Marco furrowed his brow.

“It doesn’t work like that, Jean. Just because someone hurts you, you don’t stop caring about them.” He sighed. “Besides, I hurt him more.”

“Always worked for me,” Jean murmured. He took a long gulp of the coffee, and watched as Marco’s brow furrowed even more.

“Really?” he asked, his voice thick with suspicion now. He didn’t even try to hide it, not this time.

“Yeah,” Jean confirmed.

“Who hurt you?”

“People.” Jean licked his lips. “Just people.” Marco studied his face, and Jean lowered his gaze on his hands holding the cup. After a while, Marco hummed.

“Have you ever had your heart broken?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Jean replied. He didn’t know if it was the truth or not, but he was never going to admit it either way.

“So how did you get hurt?”

“What does it matter?” Jean spoke abruptly, fixating his eyes into Marco’s. He gripped the cup a little tighter in his hands.

“I’m trying to understand, that’s all.” Marco’s voice was a little softer now, calming even.

“Yeah?” Jean blurted. “In ways you cannot even imagine is how.” There was a dry lump in his throat, and he swallowed, trying to force it down. Marco watched him, and he looked like he was trying to decide something really hard.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally questioned with the same soft tone. Yes, he was sure the question would earn him a verbal punch across the face, but he asked it nevertheless. Jean was starting to look tense once again, ready to jump and run away, but Marco figured he would run away if he felt like it. He really just wanted to understand the blonde better. The question made Jean stiffen visibly, and he sneered.

“Seriously?” he laughed dryly. “Are you asking me that _seriously_?”

“Yes,” Marco said matter-of-factly. He didn’t even hesitate, which actually made Jean hesitate a little.

“Don’t,” he spoke gravely. “Don’t do that.” He shook his head, but Marco looked sincerely confused.

“Do what?”

“That. You try to make this conversation about me somehow.”

“I’m not trying anything, all I’m saying is—” he kept a short pause, rubbing his hands on his thighs. “—I want to understand where you’re coming from.” Jean shook his head again, more rapidly this time.

“You can’t understand.” He was sitting on a small coffee table, facing Marco sitting on the couch, and he leaned forward. There wasn’t too much space between them, and Marco leaned back instinctively. “Don’t for a second think you could.” His voice was low, and it sent chills down Marco’s spine.

“Okay,” he replied calmly.

“Yeah, and also,” Jean shifted a little, pointing his finger at Marco. “I think it’s pathetic.”

“What is?”

“You. You’re pathetic. You got fucked over, it happens. If that’s the worst thing going on in your life right now, you should consider yourself pretty fucking lucky.” Jean’s voice was cold, and Marco realised things had been going too smoothly for too long and it had been only a matter of time he’d have to endure getting barked at again. This was the Jean he had met, and now here they were again. Jean’s eyes were narrow and he looked so angry, so enraged. Jean was right, Marco realised, he was never going to understand the shorter guy. He could never understand how anyone could be so full of hate and rage all the time, so easily triggered.

“You’re right,” Marco spoke quietly. “I am lucky, in so many ways.”

“Yeah, so how about you stop pitying yourself and man the fuck up?”

“But I don’t pity myself, Jean,” Marco said, and no matter how hard he tried to keep his voice steady, it was starting to crack on the edges. “To me it seems that _you’re_ the one who’s pitying himself.” The possible outcome of this, Marco knew, was that Jean could blow up in his face. He remained completely still, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, as Jean stared at him dead in the eye, everything he wanted to say flown out of the window. All he was thinking about now was Connie. The way Marco spoke to him, the way he didn’t get provoked by Jean’s comments, it was everything what Connie had used to do. The guy was always calm, even when Jean was losing his shit and pouring it all on him. He tried to make out whether Marco was at the end of his patience and ready to get up and leave, and the image of Connie yelling at him was once again clear in his mind. He saw the guy in Marco’s face, and the echo of his words lingered in the air. The words and the emotions got mixed up and he wasn’t sure anymore if it had been Marco yelling at him or Connie, and he didn’t know if it was he himself that was angry or Marco. The brunette was still waiting for Jean to say something, but the blonde was way too deep in his head. He tried to remember what it was that had happened, but everything was fuzzy now.

“Jean?” Marco asked, and there was a trace of fear in his voice. The blonde blinked slowly, and then he came back with a snap, his unfocused eyes finding Marco’s.

“Are you alright?” The question was simple enough, but Jean couldn’t think of an answer. He just stared at Marco in the eyes with a deadpan expression, and the brunette repeated the question. Jean blinked again.

“I’m fine,” he whispered. He wasn’t such a good liar himself, Marco noted, and he extended his hand awkwardly, placing it on Jean’s knee. The touch made Jean startle. Marco was going to say something, but Jean shook his head a little.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said louder this time. “Just tired, is all.”

“Maybe you should rest, I’m sure your boss would understand if—”

“No, it’s all good. I’ll rest later.” Jean nodded promptly.

“Okay. I’m sorry if I said something to upset you, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine. It’s fine.” Jean cleared his throat. “I’m fine.” He realised he was starting to sound like a broken record, so to reassure Marco, he flashed him a weak smile. Marco nodded and drew his hand away.

“Well if you’re sure—”

“I am. It’s all good, just perfect.” Jean nodded his head a little too long. “Just perfect.”

“So—”

“I need to get to work now,” Jean announced with a dull voice. Marco didn’t argue him, only got up as Jean got up, and they walked to the door silently. When Marco was out, he held his hand in the air and tried not to look too worried.

“See you,” he said. Jean nodded.

“See ya,” he answered and closed the door. He watched through the peephole as Marco stood still for a second or two, before he turned around and walked away.

 

He had been so wrong. The night was anything but slow, a horde of middle-aged men spread out in the place when Jean finally made it to work. He had no idea where the hell they had all crawled from in a fucking Monday night, but here they were. If this night wasn’t going to kill him, nothing would. As he made it out of his clothes in the back, he almost threw his jaw out yawning so wide.

“You tired, Kirschtein?” someone commented, and another yawn split Jean’s face in half. He shook his head.

“That’s an understatement,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. Maybe it was because he abused the recommended per diem of caffeine daily, but the coffee he had consumed had already been worn out. He was even more tired than before the coffee, and he was pretty damn sure now that this night was indeed going to be the end of him. There was no fucking way he was going to be able to move, breathe and think all at the same time. He’d have to choose one and pray he wouldn’t pass out from not breathing.

“I feel ya brother,” the guy responded. He was sitting in front of a dressing table, spreading foundation on his face. Jean walked to him and sat on the table, leaning forward so that his head was between his knees. He groaned.

“Yeah yeah, we all wish we could be rich and famous and we wouldn’t have to do this,” the guy mumbled, now plucking his eyebrows. “I might have something if you’re interested though.” He leaned closer to the mirror, tilting his head back to see his handiwork. Jean raised his head and squinted.

“Define ‘something’,” he spoke carefully. The guy gave him a quick glance before his eyes returned to look himself in the mirror, and he ran his hands through his hair.

“Something to keep you awake,” he said simply. Jean shook his head.

“Nah, I’m sticking to stuff I can buy without having to check over my shoulder for narcs.” Another yawn that made his jaw crack.

“Suit yourself,” the guy responded. “I also forgot to tell you, you need to cover for Thomas tonight.”

“No fucking way, that means I’ll be here ‘til fucking morning,” Jean protested in a huff. The guy shrugged uninterestedly.

“It’s only two hours more, suck it up. We’ve had to cover your bony ass for so many times.” He got up and stretched his hands over his head. “D’you know how many of your regulars kept asking for you last week? The one who always smells like scented candles? Jesus.”

“For fuck’s sake, why don’t you do it? There’s no one here after two.”

“Exactly why,” the guy patted Jean on the shoulder and winked. “Don’t let them see you’re tired or they’ll complain to the boss.” The stupid smirk on his face made Jean change his mind.

“What do you have?” he asked flatly, and the guy drew in a long breath.

“You’ll love this. It’s new. It’ll keep you going until sunrise and beyond.” With a swift movement of his hand he made a tiny pill appear in the palm of his hand. Either he was a magician, or Jean’s brain was too slow to follow any kind of rapid movements. He stared at the oval shaped, pale yellow pill.

“Huh,” he breathed.

“Like I said, it’s new. And don’t worry, it’ll let you down gently.” He extended his hand, but Jean hesitated.

“First one’s on me,” the guy cooed. Jean winced.

“I don’t know, man,” he replied, clearing his throat a bit. “I need more than ‘it’s new’.” The guy sighed exasperatedly.

“Have I ever screwed you over, hm?” he raised his eyebrows, and when Jean didn’t reply, he leaned closer to him. “Tell me, would I ever do that?”

“It’s not that,” Jean mumbled. The guy shook his head, sneering at him.

“Just take it and do whatever you will.” He grabbed Jean’s hand in his own, and shoved the pill in his palm. “Take it or don’t take it, flush it down the toilet and see if I could care less.” He twirled around and left, and soon Jean was alone, his hand still holding the drug. It didn’t have any markings on its surface, and Jean stared at it for a long time, rolling it around with one of his fingers. Before he could make up his mind in any way, he had thrown it on his tongue, and swallowed it easily. Then he took a deep breath and made it to where the customers were already yelling drunken profanities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yadda yadda yadda [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com) blah blah blah.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'll never get that taste out of your mouth  
> You'll never get the paw prints out of the hen house now  
> And you can't go back, same way you came  
> Round all the pieces up, but they just dont fit the same  
> (OK Go - White Knuckles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many things I need and want to say so I'll just make a list.  
> 1\. I was travelling for a week and that's one of the reasons it took so long to get this finished  
> 2\. Another reason is that this was really difficult to write  
> 3\. It's about 10 000 words long, makes the first chapter look so short and sad  
> 4\. I've been writing almost non-stop for a week. The things I do for this fandom and for this fic  
> 5\. I'm not gonna say how once again I should wait until tomorrow to post this yadda yadda just take it  
> 6\. I'm also not gonna say that the rating of this chapter is explicit  
> (7. If that doesn't make nervousness boil in your guts then I don't know what will, because I myself am freaking out)  
> 8\. I tried to format this differently this time, for your reading pleasure. This whole fic is a mess when it comes to formatting, I need to fix it one day ~~and the day will never come~~. Let me know if it's better or worse

The next time Jean was invited over by Marco, he pretended nothing had happened. He built an invisible wall between them – something he should have done on day one – and let the guy only see so much. He had already seen too much, but maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe there was still something left to hide. They didn’t talk about the pink elephant in the middle of the room, and instead Jean kept asking all the right questions to keep the conversations strictly on Marco. He learned about Armin and their past, and he didn’t roll his eyes when Marco confessed he sometimes wished he had done things differently. Although Jean wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he praised himself to be, Marco didn’t care. Of course he had noticed the way the blonde was avoiding things, avoiding any possible questions Marco might ask, avoiding saying absolutely anything that might draw the attention to him. He had also started avoiding looking Marco in the eyes. His eyes were either on the floor or on the walls or on his own hands, but he rarely looked at Marco anymore. Only when he thought Marco couldn’t see, he raised his gaze only to drop it quickly if the brunette made eye contact with him. Their talking wasn’t as fluent as it had been before, but Marco was so accustomed having Jean over every now and then that he ignored it, telling himself things would get better once Jean got over whatever was troubling him. And something was troubling him; something was eating him from the inside and no matter how wide he faked his smile, Marco saw behind it. He didn’t ask about it, not until one day when the guy was behind his door with a shiner.

 

That night after work Jean didn’t sleep. Instead he kept pacing his apartment, too wired to stay in one place. His mind was a carousel, thoughts going round and round and round and he followed them, repeating the patterns over and over again until it became obsessive. He lost the track of time and eventually the dim light peeking from between the curtains told him it was a morning already. He opened them wide, the sun slowly climbing the clear, cloudless sky. He felt good, energetic and unconcerned about everything, although he was restless and twitchy. When he couldn’t stand the tightness of his apartment any longer, the walls closing him in, he bounced out and measured the streets with his feet, until he found himself behind a familiar door.

He had walked all the way to Connie’s, and he was sure he must’ve done it unconsciously, because when he started walking, he hadn’t had a clear destination. And even if he did, he wouldn’t have walked here. Standing there, he stared at the ever so familiar door, its frames breathing with him, and it felt like it was telling him to go away. Just as he was going to turn around and walk away, something stopped him on his tracks. It was a distant memory from years back when they were just mere kids, and it knocked him almost over. They were throwing snowballs at each other, Jean making one a little too icy and hitting Connie on the face with it. The guy didn’t cry, he never cried, not even when there was a distant taste of blood on his tongue. Jean had cried, though, and Connie had walked him back home, where John had made fun of him for being such a baby.

It was so stupid, the whole memory, it was so pointless, but because of it, Jean didn’t walk away. He turned to face the door and before his muscles even registered the commands his brain had sent to them, his hand had reached to push the doorbell. He heard the distant noise of it inside, and violent shivers made his whole body tremble. His mind had started to slow down, the inevitable exhaustion now creeping behind his every thought, but he wasn’t still tired, not just yet. His thoughts were still flashing images after another and he wasn’t thinking clearly. He would use this leftover energy on Connie, because somehow it suddenly felt like a great idea. He’d be able to say things he usually couldn’t, because his tongue worked faster than his self-censorship, and even in his super-aware state he couldn’t see the fault behind that. When the door opened, Connie squinting his face sleepily, it occurred to Jean that he had no idea of time. Too late to back down now, though.

“Morning,” he spoke. He wasn’t sure if Connie shivered because of the cold air hitting his bare skin, or because of _him_ standing on his doorstep.

“What d’ya want?” Connie mumbled barely articulately, trying to hide a sudden yawn behind the back of his hand. Jean moved a little on his feet.

“We should talk,” he said.

“I have nothing to say to you, Jean.” Still angry. Still not budging. Still not forgiving. Then again, Jean had never apologised, there was nothing _to_ forgive.

“I’m sorry.” He let the words surge in the air between them, mixing with the warmness radiating from inside and the cold twirling around him. Connie’s face didn’t soften, his eyebrows didn’t leave their spot knotted tightly together above his grey eyes, and his mouth reminded a thin line. All that changed was the way he held himself, his shoulders slumping a little. He exhaled deeply. He didn’t say anything, his eyes measuring Jean’s face, and the blonde felt the crushing weight of all the things they weren’t saying. All the things he himself wasn’t saying, like ‘please forgive me’, ‘you were right’, ‘please don’t hate me’. _Please_.

Connie rubbed his face with his hands, shaking his head just slightly. Jean fidgeted, his skin a little too tight over his sharp bones, his muscles a little too stiff and his thoughts a little too loud in his head.

“Look, Jean…” Connie was finally able to transform his groggy thoughts into words. “It’s barely morning.” Jean shifted a little again.

“So?” he replied hastily.

“ _So_? So, so I’m tired and I don’t want to deal with this now.” Connie groaned. “I’m going back to bed.” Jean was pushing against the door before he could get it shut, and he groaned louder.

“Just go home, Jean, what the hell are you awake at this hour anyway?”

“I can’t sleep,” Jean said, but backed down on his words quickly. “I’m not tired.”

“Go home,” Connie said simply, but Jean didn’t lean off the door.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, this time a little more emphatically. He blinked rapidly, his eyes feeling bone-dry in their sockets, along with his mouth. Connie’s jaw tightened.

“Please.” Jean was pleading now with his whole being, which was softly crumbling into pieces in front of Connie’s eyes, and Connie felt a sting in his chest, of course he did. Jean’s eyes were blown wide, desperation riding his features.

“Jean,” Connie said huskily. “Go home.” It was one of the hardest things he had ever had to do, but as Jean finally swallowed difficultly and let go, he pushed the door shut. He rested his forehead against the door and forced the guilt to stop, the guilt clouding his mind and making him feel weak. This was the best for both of them, he told himself, he was doing this as much for himself as he was doing this for Jean. They’d talk eventually, just not when Jean was high as a fucking kite. Maybe Jean thought he couldn’t see it, but he could, those dilated pupils or the nervous twitches didn’t lie. He’d seen it so many times Jean couldn’t hide it from him anymore. They’d talk, eventually.

After the door had clicked shut, Jean stood in place, staring at it. He’d burned all the energy out by now, and even though he still wasn’t particularly tired, he suddenly felt the inexplicable need to crawl in his bed and sleep for a hundred years. His chest burned with rejection and humiliation, and some part deep inside of him cracked. Somehow he had imagined Connie would come around, like he always did, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that he would _not_. He thought about ringing the doorbell again, but the sense creeping back into his bones whispered him it would do no good. Connie wasn’t talking to him, that much was clear. So he retraced his steps back home.

He couldn’t sleep. After lying in his bed awake for two hours, tangled in the sheets, his own thoughts drowning him, he cranked his ass up and figured he could at least return the notes to the kid, whatshisface, and try to get some shit done. After a shower he didn’t feel any better, but he didn’t feel worse either, and finding a last pair of clean underwear in his closet, he got dressed and headed outside. Fifteen minutes and five cigarettes later he made it to the class, stylishly late. He also stylishly dozed off the second he had grabbed a seat from the farthest corner of the room, only to be woken up with a snap when people around him started to gather their things and wander outside. He mimicked them shortly after the rest of them were outside, his head throbbing a little as he stood up, his mouth dry again.

“Mr. Kirschtein?” The thing about going to a rather small college in a rather small city meant that people learned to recognise you. Especially teachers. Jean looked up, his teacher eyeing him from behind her glasses seated low on the bridge of her nose.

“Close the door, please,” she spoke calmly, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. Jean bit his tongue and obeyed reluctantly, knowing just well what this meant. He was a shitty student and it wasn’t going unnoticed. After the soft click indicating the door was shut, his professor cleared her throat.

“Something troubling you?” she asked. Jean shrugged lazily.

“I’m asking because lately you’ve seemed a little absent-minded.” She pushed the glasses up with her index finger, her brown eyes flashing behind them. Jean shrugged again.

“Sorry, I’ve had a lotta things,” he mumbled, fixing the position of the beanie on his head.

“No need to apologise to me, it’s not _my_ degree that’s in jeopardy,” she replied dryly. “But nevertheless, you might want to get your _things_ in order if you don’t want to take this course again next year.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jean muttered, his eyes fixed on the toes of his shoes.

“And I’d rather not see you here again next semester, understand?”

“Got it,” Jean answered. The professor flashed him a warm smile.

“Good. Now get out and do something productive,” she chirped. “Have a nice day, Mr. Kirschtein.”

“You too, Professor Zoe,” Jean answered with a wry tone.

From beginning to the end, the day was a pain in the ass. Jean had been asked to cover for Thomas again, and dragging his aching bones to work was a whole another challenge for him. The exhaustion had finally kicked in, and it kicked in good, sucking all might out of his muscles. When his colleague offered to make it better again, Jean resisted much less than last time.

“It’s gonna cost ya this time.”

“Whatever, man, I just need to make it through this night.” And swallowing the pale yellow pill off the palm of his hand he swore himself that was the truth. Just this one more night, then he’d sleep. And the night following, he repeated the same thing to himself, just this night. And the next night. He just needed to make it through this week, and the next week, and yet another week. He needed this to be able to keep his face in a smile that would make people want to throw money at him, and to be able to deal with assholes grabbing him without kicking their teeth in.

And when that night finally came to end, he’d succeeded. The smile still glued on his face, he got dressed and made it outside, avoiding looking in the mirror. He hated the face he had to pull to look likeable, he hated looking like he actually gave a shit about his work, or the customers, or the fact that these assholes thought they owned him somehow, they owned his body as long as they kept paying for him. It didn’t matter, they didn’t matter, he’d take a long shower after he’d get home and he’d wash this whole day off, scrub his skin until he wouldn’t feel dirty anymore. He wasn’t tired, no, but he felt horrible, he was crawling in his skin, his muscles twitching and aching like never before.

Standing outside, he lit a cigarette with shaky hands. It didn’t calm his nerves, not nearly enough, but he smoked anyway, took long drags like he was afraid this was the last cig he was ever getting to smoke. The bar was located in the quiet side of the town, the area sparsely populated. It wasn’t the safest place to be in the early hours of the night, but Jean didn’t usually worry, he knew the area like the back of his hand. Today was one of those nights, he was far too in his own thoughts to realise that someone was watching him afar. Sure, he saw them coming when they were close enough, but still he didn’t worry. He didn’t recognise the faces, but they didn’t look like troublemakers, so he figured they were harmless enough.

“The bar’s closed,” he told them when they stopped in front of him. He lit another cigarette, the two guys eyeing him.

“You work there?” one of them asked. Jean shrugged without saying anything.

“I’ve seen you.” This time the other out of the two spoke, his voice low and dark. Jean blew the smoke out slowly, but still didn’t respond. Instead he started walking, passing the two guys. Sometimes angry customers lingered after closing time outside, harassing the strippers when they came out, but rarely they ever did anything else than run their mouths. These guys, he didn’t remember seeing them, but the other paced after him, grabbing his arm.

“What’s the rush?” he voiced, and Jean pulled his arm free with a sharp movement.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he growled, turning to face the guy. He kept on walking backwards, watching the guy as he followed him, a couple of steps further.

“I asked you a question,” he smirked, the smugness glowing beneath his bearded face.

“Piss off,” Jean spat out, and dodged as the guy reached out, trying to grab him again.

“That’s rude,” the other called out, a mocking laugh gushing from between the words.

“We just wanna talk, aight?” The guy stopped, throwing his hands in the air, but Jean kept on walking. He turned his back to them, quickening his steps, his hands buried deep in his pockets now. The cigarette was still hanging on the corner of his mouth, but when one of the guys shoved him from behind, it fell and he stumbled forward. He was able to keep his balance, barely, the ground icy beneath his slippery shoes, but the next push sent him flying. He extended his hands so he wouldn’t fall on his face, the cold ground cutting into his bare palms like knives.

“You’ve no manners,” said the voice above him. “We don’t like that, do we?”

“No siree-bob,” laughed the other. Before Jean got his feet under him, a tip of a shoe bore into his side, between his ribs. He could feel it knocking the breath out of him, his lungs constricting in his chest, and he fell on his other side on the ground. The pain was paralysing.

“You need to learn some manners, you faggot.” Another kick, this time sinking into his guts, and Jean was sure he felt it all the way in his spine, ripping through his inner organs. Yet another kick following. All he could do was curl into a ball, hold his arms over his head and try not to choke on his own spit or tongue.

“You fags disgust me.” A kick. Jean let out no sound. “How do you fucking dare to breathe the same air as I do?”

“Get ‘im up.” The kicking stopped, and Jean was grabbed by the collar of his jacket. He tried to fight back, uselessly and ineffectively, and he was hauled to his feet. His head was throbbing. Before he could react or register what was happening, the same guy had spun him around, shoved his hands around his arms and pulled them back, and this time a fist connected with his face. Straight under his left eye, the motion making his head jerk to the side. He felt the pain like an electric shock spreading across his face, inside his head and to his neck. It stung worse than the kicks, and his eyes teared up involuntarily.

He still couldn’t breathe, his lungs gasping helplessly for oxygen, and his throat felt like it had been sealed shut, his brain too fucking hazy to make his muscles work. He had gone past the point where he felt panic to the point where he was so terrified that his vision had narrowed and his ears humming so loudly he thought he had gone deaf. The fist landed low on his abdomen, making him bend forward with a gasp as much as he could, before he was yanked in upright position again. He gagged, his stomach convulsing painfully.

“Take him to the car.” That was what he needed. That was the final straw the kicked the adrenaline in, and the caged animal inside him finally broke free. He was not going to go through this, not again, not ever again. Time didn’t stop or even slow down, he knew only a couple of seconds had passed when his legs finally reacted, kicking the ground underneath him, pushing him against the asshole holding him. He didn’t see it coming, and they stumbled backwards, Jean arching himself in rage and horror like a lion ready to jump his prey. Even through the water in his eyes he saw the other bastard getting closer, his hand reaching for him, but he was ready. With all the power he got left, he sent his right foot flying, hitting the motherfucker on his knee. His shoes didn’t have steel-toes like they did, but the kick was hard enough to make the guy yelp in pain, falling on his other knee in front of him. Next Jean’s knee hit him in the jaw, the loud _snap_ of his teeth hitting together echoing in the cold air.

“Sonuvab—” The words were cut short as Jean threw his head back, hitting the guy behind in his mouth, his teeth scraping against Jean’s scalp. As the guy’s grip on him loosened, he forced himself free and without thinking, without giving it even one thought, he leaped forward and started running. He tasted blood and metal in the back of his tongue, his lungs burning like he was drowning on air and tears had blurred his vision, but he was running, and he kept running until his legs finally gave in and he collapsed onto the hard ground.

 

“Oh god, what—what happened to you?” Marco gasped, and Jean replied with a frown.

“I fell,” he muttered, pushing past the brunette. Marco watched as he dropped his jacket on the floor and made his way to the living room where he slouched familiarly on the couch. Marco followed him shortly, placing himself on the armchair as he always did. This was how they always did, Jean on the couch, Marco on the armchair, but this time there was a tension in the air that had never been there. This time Marco couldn’t just let it be, so he cleared his throat carefully.

“Do you… Are you alright?” No response. Jean had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes pressed down on his lap, and his other leg was bouncing rapidly. He didn’t even look up, and Marco cleared his throat again.

“So… How are you?” he tried, keeping his tone light, but the question made Jean only sink further into the cushions. The frown deepened on his face, and his shoulders tensed. No response.

“Okay,” Marco said quietly. “Well, uh, I’m good, even if you didn’t ask, but—”

“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.” Finally a sign of life, even though it wasn’t what Marco had been expecting or hoping for. He snapped his mouth shut a little too sharply, swallowing thickly.

“This is fucking stupid, I’m so sick of this.” Jean still hadn’t raised his gaze, and Marco kept his mouth shut. “This has got to stop.” Then his eyes flickered up, but they looked at Marco only for a moment, before they were gone.

“I’m not coming here anymore.” This time Jean swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, and he gritted his teeth together. Marco wanted to ask why, that was his initial response, but he didn’t. Jean had said the same thing before, a couple of times even, but this time his voice was grave, graver than normally. This time he might’ve actually meant it. Jean’s eyes rose again, and he held Marco’s gaze longer this time.

“Are you hearing me?” he asked. Marco nodded slowly.

“I am,” he said with a hoarse voice. Jean waited for him to continue, but Marco only stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable.

“Well say something,” Jean barked, and out of a whim, he added ‘asshole’. That drew a response out of Marco, his face wincing a little, and he blinked slowly.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured. Jean hated the way he sounded almost defeated, like he was just accepting his shitty fate without as much as putting up a finger, and he sneered.

“Yeah? Usually you have so much to say.”

“You don’t have to be mean, Jean, I get it. If you want to go, just go. But don’t, don’t call me an asshole or try to make me argue with you.” Marco’s voice shook, only a little, but enough for Jean to notice it. It made him angry, but not at Marco, no. It made him angry at himself, like he didn’t hate himself enough already. The anger bubbled in his veins, and he wanted to yell at the guy, he wanted to blame it all on him. Why didn’t he? Why _couldn’t_ he?

“Fine,” he finally replied, taking a deep breath. “I’m going. Don’t ever contact me again.” He got up, his legs shaking slightly under his weight, but he managed to keep himself up. He turned away, walking to the door. Marco’s voice was quiet, but loud enough for him to hear it.

“Will you at least give me a reason?”

“No.”

“Why?” Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know why looking at his stupid freckled face made him feel so uncomfortable. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, the way Marco looked at him. He wasn’t stupid and he sure as hell wasn’t blind, and the kind of tenderness that always brushed over his tan features when Jean made eye contact with him was too much. It shouldn’t have mattered, the guy probably wanted to fuck him like the rest of them, and at the same time Jean knew it wasn’t that. Marco wasn’t like that. No, what Jean saw in his face was _worry_ and _pity_ and god forbid, _caring_. It was too much.

When he managed to get his jacket back on, his heart beating a little too fast in his chest, he let his hands fall on his sides. Marco was standing next to him now, and there it was. The worry or pity or whatever it was Marco felt towards him, there it was bright and clear, like it was written on his forehead. It made Jean’s gut tighten. Marco extended his hand, holding a couple of bills in it. Jean made no effort to take them. He just stared at Marco’s hand that trembled a little, and shook his head.

“You should go out and find some friends. Real friends.”

“I have friends.”

“Yeah? That’s why you keep paying to see me?” The hand dropped. Marco didn’t respond, and Jean didn’t dare to look up. “You’re a coward, Marco.”

“So are you.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

“Neither did I.” This time Jean looked up. Marco’s eyes were so dark, almost black, and Jean felt a lump in his chest. It forced him to take a deep breath, like he was suddenly at loss of air. He shook his head again.

“Who hurt you?” The question caught Jean by surprise, and he swallowed, the lump in his chest growing.

“People,” he responded. Marco eyed him, his face calm although his mind was storming behind it.

“Why did they hurt you?”

“Because that’s what people do.”

“Not all people.”

“You keep on believing that,” Jean remarked shakily. “And maybe, _maybe_ you won’t end up like me. Or maybe you’ll end up worse.”

“I will. I will keep on believing not all people are bad.” Marco’s eyes never left Jean’s. He was terrified, the shorter guy looking at him with a flame burning in him, but he couldn’t look away.

“Yeah, I did so once, too,” Jean said. His voice was cracking on the edges and he took a shaky breath. “You know where it got me? At the backseat of a strange car with my face down.” The second the words had left the safety of his mouth, he knew he had made a mistake. A terrible mistake. Marco’s eyes widened like he didn’t quite get it, but he did, he got it all too well. The lump in Jean’s chest had reached his throat, and the walls were coming down now, there was nothing there to keep them up anymore. He was going to get out, he was going to run and never come back, but Marco’s hand stopped him. It grabbed his arm, not strongly enough to actually hold him in place if he had decided to yank free, but firmly enough to stop Jean on his tracks.

And then he broke down. Whatever will was holding him together escaped him, and he let out a long sob that made his whole frame tremble. He didn’t want to cry in front of Marco, of all people, but it was too late now. The tears filled his eyes, no matter how hard he tried to blink them away, and he sobbed again, louder this time. He buried his face into his bruised hands, and when Marco wrapped his arms around him, he didn’t try to push him away. Marco pulled him close, so close he could hold the guy up in case his own legs wouldn’t be able to carry him anymore. And soon Jean melted, his body leaning against Marco’s, violent sobs making him gasp for air. All the things that had happened, all the exhaustion, all the stress were flowing out of him now, and he couldn’t stop it. He clung onto Marco, his hands searching for support, and Marco was there. He held the guy up; he let him cry against his shoulder, Jean’s fingers digging to his chest, twisting into the fabric of his shirt.

It took Jean a while to stop crying. After he had poured everything out, his eyes red and puffy, he concentrated on his own breathing and the steady rise and fall of Marco’s chest against him. He smelled faintly of fresh laundry and aftershave, and the smell alone was enough to make Jean’s heart flutter in his chest. Too much, too much, and yet he didn’t pull away. Instead he let the scent of Marco fill his lungs and his mind, and slowly it intoxicated him. His face was pressed against the brunette’s shoulder, and Marco’s head was softly resting against his, his cheek pressed into Jean’s hair. The blonde couldn’t ignore how Marco inhaled deeply, turning his head just the slightest to bury his nose in his hair. He also couldn’t ignore how Marco was stroking his back gently, his other hand wrapped tightly around his waist. He was holding Jean a little too close and a little too tightly, and yet he didn’t pull away.

Until he did, and he couldn’t ignore how Marco let go just a little too hesitantly, his touch lingering on Jean a little too long. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, blinking the remaining tears away, and sniffed quietly. Their eyes found each other, and this time whatever it was Jean saw on Marco’s face made him feel a little lightheaded. The worry in Marco would kill him, that was for sure. They were standing close, too close to what was comfortable for Jean, but he couldn’t move. Not when Marco’s hand came up to stroke his cheek, his soft fingers barely touching him. He felt it, nevertheless, the ghost of a touch, and he decided he didn’t really care anymore. He leaned forward, standing on his toes to close the gap between their faces, and landed his lips on Marco’s.

For some reason Jean had expected resistance, at least some, but there wasn’t any. Marco fell into the kiss eagerly, so eagerly it made Jean’s heart jump, beat hard against his ribcage. It was soft, tender and warm, so gentle he almost didn’t feel Marco’s silky skin on his. For a while they stayed like that, not daring to move, sharing the air between them, and then it was over, and Jean felt cold and empty again. He didn’t open his eyes, not even when Marco’s hand brushed over his left cheek, like he tried to swipe the dark bruise away, the tip of his nose against Jean’s. He was afraid he might start crying again.

“Are you alright?” Marco murmured. His voice was low and disarming. This time Jean replied.

“No,” he whispered simply, his voice strained, and then he let himself forget everything. He crashed their lips together again, this time with more force, and he grabbed the front of Marco’s shirt. Marco didn’t resist, and when Jean’s mouth moved hungrily against and over his, his pierced tongue slipping past their lips, he greeted it with his own. Their tongues curled around each other, exploring and memorising one another. It made Jean groan deep in his throat, his breath picking up its pace. There was nothing tender or gentle about it this time and Jean pushed himself closer to the taller guy, sucking Marco’s tongue in his mouth. His muffled moans sent shivers down Marco’s spine, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, so he rested them awkwardly on Jean’s waist. The blonde was practically grinding on to him, trying to get closer and closer, breaking the kiss only to get rid of his jacket, and then his hands slid under Marco’s shirt, up his stomach to his chest, and his flushed lips captured Marco’s again.

He pushed the guy aback until his back hit a wall with a thud, and he slid his hands around the brunette, under his shirt, digging his fingers in the flesh of his back. Marco shivered, his back arching a bit, and Jean hummed happily in his mouth, fucking his tongue in roughly. Every reaction he could milk out of Marco made him only want the guy more, his mouth moving in perfect, wet sync against his. The brunette’s hands were now wrapped around him, his curious fingers slipping under the waist of his jeans. The way Jean submitted under his touch, the way he rewarded Marco’s every touch with a moan resonating deep in his chest, the usual tenseness far gone turned Marco on more than he could have ever imagined. Jean’s hands were roaming his back, his mouth working him so well, sucking and nibbling and biting his lips, his hips pushing onto him. He was getting impossibly hard at this, and he could tell Jean was, too.

“Just don’t come in yer pants this time,” Jean suddenly pulled back enough to murmur against his lips, unable to control the wide smirk spreading on them. He licked the brunette’s lips, slowly, and Marco blushed.

“Jean, I swear to—” The rest of his sentence was swallowed by the blonde’s wet mouth, pulled out by his hungry tongue, his hand grabbing Marco’s length through his pants. Jean was pleased when the guy pushed his hips involuntarily into his hand, a little moan getting stuck in his throat.

“I’m gonna show you what this…” Jean stuck his tongue out a bit, showing the piercing. “…is good for.” With that he fumbled Marco’s pants open, his mouth travelling across the guy’s jaw to his neck, where he left a trail of saliva-coated, open-mouthed kisses on his warm skin. He smelled so good. Marco tilted his head back, his eyes falling closed, and he twisted his fingers into Jean’s hair. Jean’s hand slid past the waistband of his boxers, his long fingers grasping Marco’s hot, throbbing cock. The brunette swallowed, breathing a little whimper into the air.

“Fuck you’re thick,” Jean mouthed against Marco, nibbling the tender skin of his neck. He ran his hand along Marco’s length, rubbing the sensitive head with his thumb. Marco bit back a groan, his mind already twirling off its course.

“And you’re already so wet,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. Marco sighed at his words, jerking his hips forward. His hand tightened in Jean’s hair unconsciously, and he whined discontentedly when Jean pulled his hand out. Jean dropped on his knees, Marco’s hand following him, tangled in his hair, and the brunette finally opened his eyes. He looked down at Jean with heavy-lidded eyes, his chest heaving rapidly. The raw lust visible in his eyes was new to Jean, and he definitely wanted to see more of that. Looking up at him, he tugged Marco’s pants lower, letting his full-blown erection spring free. Jean bit his lower lip, admiring the dick beautifully curving towards Marco’s abdomen.

“Uncut, I like it,” he spoke. “Haven’t had many of those.” Marco could only sigh in response, stroking the blonde’s hair when Jean wrapped his lips around the head. It felt so much better than he had imagined, Jean’s mouth so hot, so eager to please him. Jean sucked the head gently and pulling the foreskin carefully back, he pushed the tip of his tongue into the slit. Marco shuddered with a throaty groan. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jean’s, the guy still looking at him, following his every reaction. He changed his position a little, trying to ignore his own cock squeezed tightly into his jeans, against his thigh. He cursed himself for not wearing baggy pants more often. Finally letting his eyes drop, he took more of the bigger than he could’ve guessed cock in his mouth, stretching his mouth a little wider. Then he swiftly swallowed the guy as deep as he would go, his other hand gripping the base tightly. He bobbed his head, taking the cock deeper each time, making Marco see stars the way his tongue piercing rubbed his slit, twirling around and up and down the length of his. He hollowed his cheeks and pulled back, sucking the head, jerking Marco off at the same time. Another dive, his nose burying into the dark curls running up to Marco’s navel. He pulled back with a swallow and let it drop out of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting the dick to his lips, and he moved his hand lazily over the spit-coated dick. He looked up at Marco, giving him a lopsided smile. Marco stared as Jean licked the underside of the head with a flatted tongue, his eyes on Marco’s again, and his gut coiled with want and lust at the sight.

“You taste so good, Marco,” Jean crooned. He was putting up a show like he did with customers; Marco succumbing in front of him gave him a sense of power. The guy couldn’t do anything but stare at him with a thirsty frown, Jean’s other arm against his hips keeping him pressed tightly against the wall. Marco wriggled a little, his breath coming out as high-pitched whines, but Jean only smirked up at him. His hand kept up the slow pace, his thumb spreading the leaking precum and his own saliva over the tip of his dick.

“Can’t wait to fuck you,” he said with a low voice. It made the cock in his hand twitch, Marco sucking his lower lip into his mouth, worrying it a little too roughly. Then Jean took Marco in his mouth again, and relaxing his jaw and throat, he swallowed him down completely. His tongue ran against the underside of his shaft, the little ball on his tongue making Marco arch under the sensation. His hands were both in Jean’s hair now, tugging it a little harder than he meant to, and he let out a groan. Jean kept his nose pressed against Marco’s lower stomach as long as he could go without breathing, giving him a couple of good swallows, his throat constricting around Marco’s cock deliciously. Marco’s eyes nearly crossed at the feeling, and his jaw dropped open. He whimpered as Jean finally pulled back, hollowing his cheeks, and took him deep again.

“O- _oh_ ,” Marco gasped. He rested his head against the wall, his thoughts disorderly mush in his head. Jean hummed, the low voice vibrating through Marco’s body, and he forced himself _not_ to just fuck Jean’s face as hard as he could. He was close but not close enough, and then suddenly Jean pulled off with a loud smack, stumbling back on his numb feet, his wet mouth rushing on Marco’s. The brunette could taste himself on Jean’s tongue and it made his head spin.

Jean’s hands wrapped around his neck, his nails dragging along his scalp, and Marco tugged his cock back into his boxers and pulled his pants a little higher. Then he grabbed Jean’s ass, the guy partly yelping and partly moaning as Marco raised him off the floor. He wrapped his legs awkwardly around the guy’s waist, his own neglected cock now _definitely_ too tightly confined in his jeans. He couldn’t see where they were going until his back hit a wall with a thump, and Marco rustled with something behind him, and the wall was gone. They made it through the door and suddenly Marco let go, and Jean fell into the soft mattress of his bed. The brunette was on top of him fast with sloppy, messy kisses. The mere thought that his cock had just been in that sweet mouth of Jean’s was enough to make Marco moan loudly, which in turn made Jean’s cock ache almost painfully in his jeans. They tangled into each other, hands roaming each other’s bodies, groping everything they could get their hands to.

All Jean could think about how there were too many _clothes_ and too little skin, and how he wanted Marco in every thinkable position, on top of him or under him, it didn’t matter. He just needed more of Marco, more of his mouth, his cock, his insanely fit ass. They were rubbing their hard-ons against each other furiously, Jean’s head in too much disarray to do anything else but let Marco have his way, and Marco showered him with kisses across his neck and his collarbone. He sucked on the skin, biting and licking it, trying to be everywhere at once, and Jean threw his head back. He usually barked if anyone tried to leave any marks, but now he _wanted_ it, he wanted to see Marco’s teeth marks all over him the next morning.

Marco pushed Jean’s shirt up with one hand, running it along his stomach to his chest, raking his nails against the shivering skin. He brushed his fingers over Jean’s hardened nipples, giving the other a gentle rug. Jean choked out a high-pitched moan and arched his back, and Marco rolled his thumb over the other nipple again. The sighs and the moans leaving Jean’s mouth travelled straight to Marco’s groin, and he couldn’t get enough of it.

“F-fuck,” Jean moaned. Marco shifted a little lower, and reached down to kiss and nibble the blonde’s bare chest, running his tongue over his other nipple to the other, teasing them mercilessly. Jean whined and threw his head back, his fingers twisting into Marco’s hair. He was going to lose his mind, and when Marco tugged one of the nipples carefully with his teeth, he pushed his hips up with a force. Too many clothes, too little skin. He was about to complain how they were going too slow, too fucking slow, because goddammit he just wanted to rip the clothes off Marco and himself and fuck him until neither of them could move a muscle, but suddenly Marco stopped moving. Jean lifted his head a little and caught Marco staring at him, his torso, and he knew exactly why. He propped himself up on his elbows and watched as Marco traced with his finger the dark bruises on Jean’s side, spreading to his stomach.

“Jean…” he spoke quietly, his eyes wide.

“Can we _not_ talk about this now?” Jean responded as quietly. Marco’s hand stopped, and he placed it flat on Jean’s stomach, leaning down to kiss the skin almost too softly.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, but y’know what _does_ hurt?” It wasn’t very smooth or very classy, but this was Jean, he was never either. He sat up a little, Marco giving him space, and unzipped his jeans, giving his achingly hard cock the long-awaited freedom. “This.” The stupid grin on his face made Marco roll his eyes, but he couldn’t help but crack a smile back.

“Fair enough,” he murmured, stealing a kiss from the blonde, drawing out a long sigh. Jean pushed him onto the bed on his back, sitting on top of him astride, and he yanked the shirt off of himself. Marco sat up a little and followed his example, throwing his own shirt on the floor. Then he wrapped his hands around Jean’s body and kissed his chest and his shoulders and wherever he could reach.

“You’re so beautiful,” he spoke, his hands running up and down Jean’s back. “So, so beautiful.” He looked up at Jean with hungry eyes, and the blonde shivered. He blamed it on the cold air cooling his bare skin, but maybe it had something to do with Marco’s massive hard-on pressing against him.

“Whatever, just fuck me already,” he managed to grunt, and without a word, Marco spun him on the bed on his back, and got up long enough to kick his own pants off. Then he grabbed the waist of the blonde’s jeans and pulled them off. They got tangled on his feet, and he had to reach out to help Marco. The brunette’s face was flushed, and his normally ever so neat hair was a hot mess, which suddenly made Jean realise how fucking hot the guy was. Never mind the incredible, fit body he had been hiding all this time under his clothes, or the thirst-like want hooding those dark eyes, or the perfect fucking cock trying to get out of his boxers, thanks to Jean. No, the guy was freaking _hot_ and Jean felt like a skinny teenager compared to him. And for some reason that Greek God was in the same bed with him, moving his gorgeous lips across his body now, his warm hands sliding up Jean’s thighs as he pulled his underwear slowly down, following the exposed skin with his mouth. Jean closed his eyes and sighed as the last piece of clothing restricting him was pulled off and thrown somewhere on the floor. And then Marco stopped again, and Jean bit back a smirk.

“You’re…”

“Never seen a guy who shaves before?” Jean grinned. Marco blinked.

“Actually, no.” And he blushed, this time out of embarrassment and surprise. Jean rested his hands under his head, entwining his fingers, and raised his other eyebrow suggestively.

“I shave places I didn’t even know could be shaved,” he said. “It’s for work.”

“Oh.”

“Aren’t you gonna ask why, like you usually do?” Jean asked, pouting his lips. The displeased frown on Marco’s face made him chuckle lightly.

“I really don’t want to know to be honest,” Marco shook his head. His hands were resting on Jean’s spread thighs, his fingers drawing idle circles against his skin.

“I think it makes my cock look bigger, though,” Jean mused.

“You have a very lovely cock,” Marco agreed, and Jean let out a laugh.

“Lovely? That’s a first,” he huffed. “Big, I could’ve lived with big. But lovely… It’s like calling me adorable or some shit.”

“Well, you're not very adorable,” Marco laughed, and Jean stretched his hands above his head, rolling his eyes. “Gorgeous, on the other hand, you are.”

“Thanks, Yoda,” Jean grinned, but the words made his cock twitch a little. It wasn’t _what_ Marco said, but the way he said, his lower lip tugged between his teeth loosely, his eyes wandering around Jean’s naked body shamelessly. He’d been eye-fucked before, but not like this, not so intensely. He felt exposed and it turned him on more than he cared to admit, losing control like this wasn’t usually sexy. But now, now he almost craved for it. Before he began to feel too exposed, Marco had lowered himself over Jean, his lips starting their travel above his navel, his tongue flicking out every now and then, making it down painfully slow.

“Jesus, Marco,” Jean whined, pushing the guy’s shoulders with both hands. “Just get on with it, _please_.”

“Never heard you say ‘please’ before,” Marco murmured, his hot breath tickling the skin just above where Jean’s manhood curved, and the blonde moaned.

“Fuck y— _ah_.” And then Marco’s mouth sealed around him, so hot and so soft, his tongue doing miracles inside his mouth. Marco pushed Jean’s thighs more apart, and Jean was more than eager to comply. Marco’s hands slid under Jean’s ass, and he gave the blonde a squeeze, bobbing his head up and down along his length.

“Oh, oh _god_ ,” Jean sighed. His fingers sunk into Marco’s shoulders, his head thrown back as Marco sucked him off. He hadn’t imagined Marco would be so _good_ at giving head, not even that one time when he had jerked off to the sloppy thought of Marco on his knees, Jean’s cock buried deep in his throat. Yeah so maybe he had run out of fapping material and had used Marco out of boredom. Boredom, yeah. But this was, he decided, far better. This was far better than any head he had received in a really long time, and he was getting close so quickly, his thighs trembling and muscles tightening under his skin. Marco swallowed the guy down and gagged a little, and Jean squeezed his fingers so tightly in Marco’s shoulders he left white marks behind.

“I’m… I’m…” he whimpered. He couldn’t even finish the sentence as his orgasm hit him with a gasp, his warm fluid coating the insides of Marco’s mouth. The guy gagged again and pulled back, some cum dripping down his chin. He swallowed and licked his lips.

“Sexy,” Jean said huskily. He bit his lower lip as Marco wiped himself clean on the back of his hand.

“I’m impressed,” Jean continued. “That was a really good blowjob.”

“Really, now,” Marco murmured, crawling over Jean. Jean wiggled his eyebrows up at Marco, earning a small huff. The brunette rested his hands on each side of Jean’s head, hovering above the guy, his hips pressed against Jean’s, reminding the guy of his little problem. Scratch that, his _big_ problem. Jean reached up and wiped the guy’s lower lip with his thumb.

“Really. About time you put that big mouth of yours into good use.”

“Funny,” Marco hummed. He leaned down to kiss Jean, wiping yet another stupid grin off that smug face. He lowered his weight on his elbows, and tilted his head a little, Jean moaning gratefully into his mouth. He wrapped his hands around Marco’s shoulders. The guy was an amazingly good kisser, too, his lips so fucking delicious. Jean could’ve made out with him for hours, if it wasn’t for the actual physical need to feel the guy closer, even closer than this.

“Come on, Marco,” Jean broke the kiss, Marco’s lips following him, stealing a soft moan out of him. “Just fuck me already.”

“Will you say please?” the brunette murmured, nibbling Jean’s lips teasingly.

“ _Please_ fuck me like the needy slut I am.”

“I can do that,” Marco answered, his lips curling into a smile. He pushed himself up, kicked off his soaked boxers, and searched through his nightstand. Finding what he wanted, he was quickly hovering over Jean again. The blonde pulled him close again, Marco’s cock pressing against his stomach, smearing some precum on his skin, and with a needy kiss from the blonde, Marco popped the lube open.

“Just take it easy, yeah?” Jean breathed, tugging Marco’s lower lip between his teeth. “I haven’t, y’know. For a long time.” He might’ve or might’ve not blushed a little saying that.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course. We’ll take it slow,” Marco answered soothingly. He smeared the lube on his fingers and tossed the bottle aside. He took a better position over Jean, leaning all his weight on his other side, and ran his free hand over Jean’s body. He gave the guy’s half-hard cock a soft squeeze, and Jean spread his legs more open with a sigh, his other thigh resting against Marco’s side. The brunette relaxed him with little, soft kisses over his lips, and slipped his hand between Jean’s legs, his index finger circling his entrance. He pushed the tip in carefully, and when Jean let his eyes fall shut with a soft moan, he continued pushing. All the way to the knuckle, and Jean held his breath.

“You okay?” Marco asked quickly.

“Oh yeah,” Jean breathed out.

“You sure?”

“Stop talking now,” Jean grunted. “You have a finger in my ass. Ain’t no time for talking.” Marco huffed at the vulgar comment, and curling his finger towards Jean’s stomach, he drew it out slowly, making Jean twitch. He pushed it back in and repeated, his finger dragging over the sweetest of the sweet spot, Jean’s fingers already twisting into the sheets underneath him. Marco pulled the finger out almost completely, before he inserted another one, and pushed them both in slowly.

“This good?” he murmured, ignoring the ‘no talk’ rule. Jean nodded loosely, his brow furrowed as if in concentration. Marco peppered his face with kisses, his lips brushing over his cheek and his jaw, and Jean cocked his head to the side with a quiet sigh. Marco took the hint, mouthing his neck as he pulled his fingers out and pushed them back in.

“ _Ah_ ,” Jean moaned. His heels dug deep into the mattress when Marco curled his fingers again, rubbing them along his inner wall. Pretty soon he was fingering the shaking guy with a steady pace, a third finger soon spreading him open even more. Jean hadn’t realised how loud he was, until Marco’s lips were on his ear, his hot breath giving him goose bumps.

“You sound so hot,” he whispered. “I want to hear you call my name like that.” One long, breathy moan out of Jean, and Marco pulled his fingers out completely. Jean protested a little, but Marco quietened him by swallowing his complaints straight off his lips. He couldn’t take anymore; he wanted to be inside of Jean, he wanted to make the guy feel so good, so much better.

“You’re so hot, Jean,” he murmured, as he placed himself over the guy, Jean immediately wrapping his legs around his waist. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.” He reached for the condom somewhere buried in the sheets, and ripped it open with his teeth. He fished it out and rolled it on, and wiping some lube over his dick, he looked down at Jean.

“You ready?” he asked, maybe a little more concernedly than he should have. Jean licked his flushed lips and swallowed.

“I was born ready, baby,” he hummed with a small smile. Marco kissed him breathless and carefully, so very carefully he lined his cock with Jean’s entrance, and started pushing in. His lips still on Jean’s, he felt the blonde drawing in a sharp breath. He was so _tight_ , so insanely tight, so hot and so fucking amazing, and when the tip finally slid in, Jean tensed under him.

“H-holy shit,” he whimpered. Marco stopped.

“Are you—”

“’M fine, just gimme, gimme a second.” Jean wrapped his arms around Marco’s shoulders, shifting his body a little. “It feels so much bigger like this.” Marco showered him with gentle kisses, and bit by bit Jean relaxed under his attention enough to nod his head.

“’Kay, just… Go on.” Jean swallowed thickly as Marco started pushing again, his cock sliding slowly deeper inside of him. He held his breath, Marco’s cock bigger than anything he’d ever had in his ass, and soon Marco’s hips pushed against his ass. Marco nuzzled his face into Jean’s neck.

“You feel incredible,” he whispered. “So _good_.”

“Y-you too,” Jean moaned. “So fucking big.” Marco stayed like that for a while, letting Jean get used to it, and he didn’t move until the guy wriggled underneath him. Slowly he pulled out and then pushed back in, Jean letting out a strangled gasp. Before Marco could ask anything, namely ‘are you alright’, Jean grabbed his ass and gave it a squeeze. Marco took the hint and pulled back, pushing back in with a little more force.

“Fu- _ah_.” Jean’s back arched off the bed, his toes curling with pleasure. “Y-yes, do that again.” And Marco did, sliding almost completely out, and then ramming back in. With every following thrust he gave, Jean moaned loudly, and soon he was biting on Marco’s shoulder, trying to muffle his high-pitched whimpers. He wasn’t usually this vocal, but with the force Marco was nailing him deep into the mattress, he couldn’t hold it back. There was drool dripping down his chin and he didn’t even notice it, nor did he notice his nails bored into Marco’s skin, sure to leave bruises. He heard Marco panting in his ears, the words getting dirtier the harder Jean whined into his skin, and he had long ago stopped seeing anything but hot, white stars.

And just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, his legs shaking so badly he had trouble keeping himself wrapped around Marco, his cock leaking precum all over their stomachs from being rubbed so nicely between them, the guy slowed down, until he stopped almost completely.

“You wanna be on top?” he murmured, his voice raspy. He was still moving his hips slowly, sliding in and out only the slightest, and Jean would’ve jumped out of the window if Marco had asked him to. He nodded, afraid his voice might fail him if he tried to speak. Marco pulled out completely, and Jean was expecting the guy to get off him and lie on his back, but instead he pushed his hands under Jean, grabbing him tightly, and rolled them over smoothly. Jean yelped, which made Marco’s chest vibrate with a gentle laugh.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve given you a heads up.” Jean huffed and pushed himself up, his hands on Marco’s chest. Marco’s hands were caressing his thighs, and he was gazing Jean with the fondest expression. Jean could do with the lust in Marco’s eyes and the dirty words he drowned him in; he could even do with Marco bending him over and fucking him raw, but he couldn’t do with the kindness in him. He couldn’t do with kindness overall, because it made him remember what a shitty person he was. Maybe Marco saw it in his face, because the sweet expression was quickly surpassed by an old friend known as worry.

“What’s wrong?” Marco asked hesitantly. Maybe he thought it had something to do with him, or maybe the kindness in him thought that Jean had started feeling regret or something similar, but Jean blinked his eyes swiftly, and shook his head. Whatever Marco had seen in his face, he wiped it off and grinned at him.

“Nothing. You want me to ride you to the fucking heavens and back?”

“Yes please,” Marco smiled, and there was a hint of smugness in there. Jean raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“Then shut up and lie back, and let Mr. Kirschtein take good care of you.” He leaned a little forward and fumbled for Marco’s dick, grabbing it in his hand. Marco did as told, and admired the way Jean looked as he concentrated on finding a comfortable position. Jean bit his lips and closed his eyes, holding Marco’s slick cock still as he slowly sunk on it, his other hand curling against Marco’s chest.

“A-ah,” he sighed, as he slid all the way down, and Marco let his mouth fall partially open.

“Oh, _Jean_ ,” he uttered. Jean licked his lips slowly, and gave the guy an experimental roll of his hips. It seemed to work amazingly well, as Marco’s eyes fluttered closed, his breath coming out in a short spurt. Jean rested his hands behind him, against Marco’s thighs, and started rocking back and forth, raising his ass with every thrust forward. He watched the guy come apart under him, uncontrollable moans filling the air, and he sped up, throwing his own head back. He circled his hips, leaning back even more, and as soon as he found _the_ spot, his arms started to tremble under his weight.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good.” Jean’s voice came as a low grumble, his whole body beginning to tense as he rode the guy harder, his own dick bouncing between them. “ _God_ I love your cock.” Marco couldn’t form a verbal response at this point anymore, he just forced his eyes to stay open as he absorbed every sigh, every movement and every face Jean made. And goddammit if Jean’s sex faces weren’t the hottest thing he had ever seen, his features twisted with bliss and overwhelming pleasure he couldn’t hide even if he had wanted to. The bed under them was creaking helplessly, the headboard banging against the wall with steady thumps. The smallest part in Marco’s brain felt bad for neighbours, but it was soon overridden by Jean, who bent forward, throwing his hands on Marco’s chest as he continued to fuck himself on the guy.

“I’m so, I’m so close,” he panted. A drop of sweat ran down his temple, down his cheek to his clenching jaw.

“Come for me, I wanna see you come,” Marco murmured in response. Jean dragged his other hand down Marco’s body between them where he wrapped his fingers around his own dick, jerking himself off with a few, fluid movements. His jaw fell slack as he moaned Marco’s name in the air, his eyes squeezing shut tightly, and he came all over Marco’s stomach. He was still riding the brunette, his thighs aching and his head spinning, and Marco pulled him close, against his chest, and he thrust in Jean as hard as he could a couple of times, the guy constricting so deliciously around him, whining loudly in his ear, and then he was coming, his whole mind blacking out for a second or two. He kept his hands squeezed on Jean’s ass as he rode his orgasm out, his teeth sunken into Jean’s shoulder.

 

Neither of them moved for a long time. Jean spread out on top of Marco, the guy underneath him caressing his back with slow, long strokes, he listened to Marco’s breathing, listened to his own heart beating, his blood rushing in his ears. And when he couldn’t ignore the sticky cum gluing them together anymore he slowly pushed himself up and off of Marco with a grimace, and rolled on his back next to the guy.

“I’ll get some paper,” Marco said huskily, and Jean only hummed in response. His lids felt like they weighed a ton, so he let them fall shut, feeling the bed shift as Marco got up. He heard the guy’s light footsteps leave the room, a distant sound of water running, and then he fell asleep.

He remembered vaguely waking up at some point to Marco lifting him up, but only vaguely. When he finally woke up enough to get his eyes open for longer than two seconds, it took him a while to remember where he was. Especially because there was an arm wrapped around him, someone pressed against his back, their breathing tickling the nape of his neck. There was a blanket thrown over them. After a few hazy moments his mind connected the pieces and he tried very carefully to push Marco’s hand off him without waking the brunette. Unfortunately trying does not equal succeeding, and Marco mumbled Jean’s name barely understandably, throwing his arm tighter around the blonde.

“Where you going?” he murmured, nuzzling his nose in Jean’s neck.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up,” Jean mumbled. “I need to get home.” There was a brief silence, and Jean wondered if Marco had fallen asleep again. But then he moved a little.

“You don’t have to,” he mouthed against Jean’s neck, and the guy shivered. “It’s late. And cold outside. You could stay.” And for some reason the proposition sounded really good to Jean, and for some unknown reason he felt extremely comfortable just like this. He couldn’t remember why he hated cuddling so much, this was nice. So nice that even though he formed a half-assed objection saying how he _really_ should go home, he didn’t try to unwrap Marco from around him again. The world outside would wait, and he felt safe, he felt like nothing bad could reach him here, next to Marco, because Marco was what kept it all out. He felt the shadows moving around them in the darkness, across the walls, and not even they could swallow him, not now. Without even realising it, he pressed tighter against Marco's chest, the guy welcoming him with a content sigh. He fell asleep pretty soon to the sound of the brunette breathing.

 

He woke up, this time alone. The spot where Marco had been sleeping was still warm, and Jean stretched his sleepy limbs, yawning widely. He was tired but for the first time in weeks it wasn’t the only thing he felt. It wasn’t riding his mind until he couldn’t think of anything else. He waited for a while for Marco to return to bed, until he realised the apartment was completely silent. He crawled out of the bed and walked out of the bedroom buck naked, turning on the lights as he went. The place was empty, and when he walked to the kitchen, there was a note on the counter.

_Jean. Sorry, I had to go to a class and I didn’t want to wake you up. Make yourself at home!_ _:) Marco_

 

If someone had asked, Jean would have never admitted that the two sentences made him smile and his heart flutter in his chest. Neither would he have ever admitted that finding the money under the note made his heart in turn freeze in his chest. He stared at the bills, and suddenly he felt completely aware that he was naked, and that there was money on the counter, and it was for him. He placed the note back with a trembling hand, and left the money untouched. He knew no amount of showering would wash off this dirtiness, no amount of blowing customers would make him feel as worthless as this.

The worst thing about it all was that it wasn’t Marco’s fault. Jean was the one who had reminded them both all the time that this was about money, he did this for money, and there was nothing else than money Jean cared about. He thought he had a thick skin and that nothing could impale it, but now his chest hurt and his heart beat a broken rhythm and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why he cared. This was strictly business, he had said so himself. Only maybe he hadn’t realised that Marco saw it as business, too. Maybe Jean had thought that he still had the upper hand, even after spooning the guy all night, even after letting him fuck him even though he never let anyone fuck him.

And so he got dressed and walked out of the apartment, the image of the money and the stupid note burned behind his eyes, and he held the humiliation and ache tightly buried in his chest. He would keep them there, reminding himself that he was only worth as much as people chose to pay him. It wasn’t like anyone would ever see himself as anything else but a stripper and a whore, apparently. Halfway home he had found a way to blame it all on Marco, and he worked himself up, got angry at the guy. So angry that at home he screamed at the walls, punched them until his knuckles bled, broke a bunch of stuff he got his hands to, and yelled until his throat hurt. And then he called Eren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like the third time I've written smut (in English) and I'm sorry if instead of sexy it's ridiculous. I TRIED and therefore no one can judge me. But that doesn't matter now, all that matters is what _you_ liked it. So please do tell me your opinions, and don't be afraid to criticize. I'm blind, I've been staring at this stupid chapter for so long I can't see anything anymore. Maybe I need a beta.
> 
> I'm also exhausted and I probably forgot to say something important, but c'est la vie. Hit me up at [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com) for questions or if you just want to talk. I also post there the progress of every chapter (and by progress I mean posts like "I MIGHT FINISH THIS TOMORROW OR NOT" and "I HATE THIS". I'm a mess.) so you'll know if it'll take me another month to post the next one. I hope not.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hands down, I'm too proud for love  
> But with eyes shut it's you I'm thinking of  
> But how we move from A to B?  
> It can't be up to me 'cause you don't know  
> Eye to eye, thigh to thigh, I let go  
> (Lykke Li - Little Bit)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'm posting this. One month, exactly one month. I love you guys and this chapter is dedicated to two people. I'm not saying to whom, but if you think it might be you, it probably is. The chapter summary grosses me out because it's too sweet but I was thinking of that song and it kinda fits so there you go. At least it's not angsty, right?

Stupid fucking Eren. He was always there when Jean reached out for him, always there when Jean sunk deep in the pits of self-loathing, always there when he just needed someone to use as a getaway. Like always when Jean called, he was eventually there when the day turned into a night, behind his door. This time Jean didn’t even try to pretend there was anything worth saying and Eren let the guy drag him to the bed and rip his clothes off, let Jean fuck him like always. Jean tried to forget the way Marco had tasted, the way he had felt, but even Eren’s muffled moans against the bed couldn’t stop Marco’s words pulsating through his veins. He felt Marco’s warm hands on him, his soft lips on him, his dark eyes on him, and he heard the low murmurs echoing in his ears and under his skin, how beautiful Marco thought Jean was, and he dug his nails into Eren’s skin, hating himself for even one second believing the words.

Stupid fucking Eren. As they lied in silence afterwards, Jean offering the guy a smoke and Eren accepting it without a word, all Jean could think about was how much he hated the guy in his bed and then how much he hated himself. Eren was different than usually. This time he kept his distance, lying on his back, their shoulders barely touching. He didn’t speak, he didn’t even look at Jean, just stared at the ceiling absentmindedly. The smoke he blew out whirled upwards, disappearing into the dusty air, and Eren didn’t say anything about the bruises or the shattered glass on the floor. He was different, and it bothered Jean. He couldn’t be the one ending the silence, he wasn’t the clingy one, he wasn’t like Eren. He didn’t care, right? Just like he hadn’t cared before when Eren had walked out on him, only this time there was no one else. There was just the two of them, no girlfriends or boyfriends, nothing to hide from no one. Not that it mattered to Jean; this didn’t mean anything, just like it hadn’t meant anything before.

Still, when Eren had finally taken the last breaths out of the dying cigarette and he stretched himself up from the bed with a stifled yawn, Jean couldn’t just let him leave like that. That wasn’t how they usually did.

“So uh…” he started blankly. A beginning for a conversation just as good as anything else. Eren didn’t look at him, crawling over him to the floor and slipping into his clothes. He made sure he didn’t dance right into the glass as he pulled his jeans up.

“Why you so quiet?” This was starting to feel familiar, they had done this before. Eren wasn’t the subtlest guy, not with his big mouth and all-over-the-place personality, so when something wasn’t quite right, it showed. Namely, it showed in his lack of verbal communication and the massive amount of non-verbal messages flowing off his body like he was screaming them out loud. Yeah, something was quite not right and it pissed Jean off. _He_ was the one who felt like shit here, what right did Eren have to act like this now of all times? Yeah, Jean was a selfish bastard only interested in his own problems, but Eren knew that. He had agreed to tolerate it the second he had responded to Jean’s booty call over and over again.

Eren shrugged. He had managed to dive in in the rest of his clothes, the hood of his varsity jacket pulled over his head. He had his back to Jean, and he had stopped moving. He looked like he was contemplating something really hard, maybe about to say something but then not saying it anyway.

“What?” Jean’s voice came out flat and uninterested, but it made Eren turn around. He pushed his hands into his pockets, still keeping his mouth shut. He just eyed Jean from under his brows, and the blonde sat up in the bed stiffly.

“Seriously, you’re starting to creep me out here.” He tapped a cigarette out of the pack lying on the nightstand, and pushed it between his lips. He let his eyes fall only for as long as he got it lit, and then he looked up at Eren again.

“If I asked what happened to your face, would you tell me?”

“No,” Jean replied matter-of-factly. Eren bit his lips, squinting momentarily at the blonde.

“Figured as much. I’m gonna ask anyway.”

“Whatever.” This was better than the unsettling silence. At least he was saying something, granted it was just asking stupid questions. Eren’s eyebrow twitched.

“What happened to your face, Jean?” Oh, so no _Kirschtein_ this time. Jean took a deep breath.

“What do you care?” he answered bluntly, but he wasn’t getting his usual reactions out of Eren. The guy’s face stayed frozen like carved out of stone, and Jean was becoming more and more creeped out by it.

“Was it a customer?”

“I don’t know,” Jean muttered. That was the honest to god truth, after all. He bit the skin around his thumb, the cigarette hanging between his index and middle fingers.

“Was it the same guy who gave you those bite marks?” Eren asked. What little determination (and endless curiosity) there was to his voice was more than usually, mostly he just whined like the annoying brat he was until someone got sick of it and either told him what he wanted to know or smacked him over the head. Jean scoffed. He had completely forgot about those, the stupid hickeys, forgot about the fact that he had screamed at his own mirror image for being such a fucking slut.

“Yeah, sure. But deep down I know he really loves me,” he sneered. Eren ignored him.

“So a customer?”

“I told ya, I dunno. Coulda been customers but I don’t know.” He shrugged and put the cigarette out, the bittersweet taste lingering at the back of his mouth. “You happy now?”

“How’d it happen?”

“How do you think it happened?” Jean mumbled. Eren was inexhaustible when it came to questions, and Jean could think of one other person who had the same stupid tendency. His name did _not_ begin with ‘m’ and end with ‘arco’. Eren cocked his head to the side, and for the first time, his expression shifted. It wasn’t for the better, though, as his brows furrowed even more and his eyes narrowed. Eren had always been immune to Jean’s bullshit, sometimes he just chose to play along to keep Jean talking longer. Today he wasn’t playing, today he was serious and Jean hated it. Almost as much as he hated the fact that Eren ended their conversation with a shrug, his face smoothing out.

“Whatever, man. Don’t tell me then.” He reached over to the bedside table and snatched a cigarette and the lighter. “I gotta go anyway.” He said it like it was the easiest thing to do, like he really didn’t _care_ , and either he knew perfectly how to work Jean up or he just got lucky. But when he lit the cigarette and threw the lighter back on the table, his back turning once again to Jean and his feet slowly moving him closer to the door, Jean knew he couldn’t just let it be. This wasn’t fun, he was even more frustrated now than he had been before Eren came over. He needed to be the one saying the last word because this was _his_ game and he was the player and Eren was the pawn.

“Seriously,” he huffed, and Eren glanced at him over his shoulder. “What the fuck am I supposed to tell you, there’s nothing to tell.” Eren considered it for a moment, and then smacked his lips and shrugged indifferently.

“Okay, whatever you say,” he replied calmly.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that okay. Cool. Whatever.” Eren pulled his shoes on, keeping the cigarette between his teeth. “See ya around I guess.”

“What the fuck?” Jean snapped. “That’s—that’s it?” Eren blinked, looking slightly confused and more than surprised.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Jean,” he mumbled, ash falling on his jacket, and he wiped it off automatically. “I don’t feel like listening to you being an asshat today.” Jesus, what was up with people lately? Didn’t everyone already get their ‘Jean’s an asshole’ memo like years ago? How was this even news? The excessive eye roll Jean gave him didn’t make Eren even flinch.

“Yeah, that. I don’t feel like putting up with _that_ today,” he murmured, and he even threw a snide smile into the bargain.

“Fuck you Eren.”

“Or that.”

“I got beaten up by a couple of guys after work, alright? They coulda been anything from angry customers to homophobic cunts, I didn’t exactly stay behind to ask them.” Maybe that had been Eren’s aim all the time, to push Jean against the wall so he would talk, but Jean was desperate and weak and determined to win this and he didn’t care. Eren scratched his neck.

“You go to police?”

“Like they would care.”

“Well, it’s kinda their _job_ to care,” was the calm response.

“You’re not _seriously_ giving me that bullshit?” Jean scoffed, but Eren only shrugged. “When I got assaulted a coupla years back, I did go to police. Suddenly it was all my fault when they heard what I do for living.” The stern look on Jean’s face made Eren decide not to press the matter further.

“What’d you think your customers are gonna say? It’s not exactly appealing, the way you look right now.” Shit. The thought hadn’t even crossed Jean’s mind. As much as he hated admitting it, Eren was right. Even if some sick fucker was to be turned on by bruises, most of the customers would complain. After all, they were the ones spending their precious money and they demanded certain quality for it. As much quality as you can expect from a sleazy gay stripper club, but in this case the customer was always right. Except they were always, always wrong. Either way, not being able to work because of this would mean no money which would mean more things to give Jean a splitting headache.

He didn’t speak for a while, pondering his slim options, and Eren shifted his weight from foot to foot. He cleared his throat, but Jean didn’t bother looking up, his gaze buried somewhere into the distance.

“Who’s the guy, then?”

“What guy?” He finally snapped out of it, dragging his eyes to meet Eren’s.

“You never let me bite you,” he murmured with a slight frown. Jean rolled his eyes and huffed. Stupid fucking Eren. Leaving the guy hanging, he got up and pulled something on. He wandered to kitchen all the while mulling over the fact that soon he would have to either go commando or buy new underwear, since his last clean pair was starting to feel way too worn-out. Well, he could turn them inside out and use them a little longer, but then he’d seriously have to do something. Maybe finally get the washing machine fixed, he was sure the landlady would just love to help him out with it. Maybe if he’d put his best flirting game on, she would buy him a new one. The machine had been there when he had moved in, but then someone had had a great drunken idea to try and wash something that should have definitely _not_ been washed there and the whole thing had blown up. He couldn’t remember who it had been – Ymir, must’ve been Ymir – or what the thing had been, but he did remember the water flooding everywhere.

“Sometimes I really fucking hate you Jean.” It was Eren’s voice drilling into his head that forced him to land back to reality. The guy had followed him in his path to the kitchen, leaning against the door frame with his arms firmly crossed over his chest. Sure enough, he looked pretty annoyed, pouting his lips and all, but Jean didn’t dignify his presence with a response. He’d already won, Eren was getting whiny and Jean had lost all interest. He was going through the few things he had in his fridge, cringing as he checked the expiration date on something that had probably once been jam. It was green. He had no idea what the colour of it had been before.

“You seeing him or something?” See, inexhaustible. The questions never ended.

“No,” Jean replied. Deciding the stuff in his fridge was nowhere near edible anymore, he closed the door and straightened up. Eren’s stern gaze followed him, piercing through his skin.

“Who is he? Someone I know?” There was a new kind of tightness in his voice, something Jean hadn’t heard before. Interesting.

“No,” Jean repeated. He knew it was getting to Eren, his former cool act crumbling down now, giving way to annoyance.

“So you’re not seeing him?”

“I already said no, didn’t I?”

“Good.” Eren straightened up too, leaning off the door frame. “Was it a customer?” Jean shrugged, deciding he wasn’t going to explain anything. Better let Eren wallow in it alone until he’d lose his mind.

“Should I be jealous?” Eren’s tone of voice lightened a little, but he was definitely still serious as a fucking cancer.

“Jesus,” Jean groaned. “Do what the hell ever you want.” He couldn’t help feeling a little self-satisfied, though, imagining Eren getting jealous over him. Served him just right.

“Just tell me who the guy is. Must’ve been pretty special.” Eren sounded bitter now. Was this only about the few damn hickeys or was he actually jealous?

“Nobody,” Jean mumbled. He pushed past Eren to the living room, but the guy grabbed his arm before he got too far. He yanked it free, but turned around to face him.

“What is it, Eren?” Jean sighed in exasperation, spreading his hands. “What do you want? What? What the fuck do you want?”

“You’re such a fucking asshole, you know that?” Eren suddenly spat out, his face twisting with anger now. He uncrossed his arms and let them fall to his sides. Jean felt even smugger; he just _loved_ getting on Eren’s nerves.

“Oh I know,” he purred. “Cry me a goddamn river.” Eren’s jaw tightened.

“Do you really get a kick out of being such a twat? Do you really enjoy pissing people off that much?” he spoke from between his teeth, his eyes sharp.

“You know what, weren’t you suppose to go?” Jean raised his hand and looked down on his wrist like he was taking a look at the time. “Like, ten minutes ago?” Eren clenched his hands into fists.

“I can’t believe I thought I could actually _like_ you,” he hissed, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I thought you could actually be a decent human being for once.” Jean shrugged indifferently. Whatever. There was nothing Eren could say that would hurt his feelings. Whatever it was, he’d most likely heard it before.

“You never liked me, you only liked the sex we were having.” Jean laughed dryly. “There’s a difference.”

“You’re not that special, Jean. Sure, you’re still pretty and people wanna suck your cock, but it won’t last.”

“That’s why I intend to die young,” Jean sneered. Eren blinked, and then he suddenly relaxed, his face smoothing out once again.

“Yeah. You say that now, but I know that in ten years you’ll still be stuck here, doing the same shitty things you always do, except you’ll finally realise how completely alone you are.” His voice was soft, and he shook his head again. “Once your looks go, no one will stay.” Jean swallowed thickly. Yeah, he had thought nothing Eren could say would hurt him, but something made his heart ache just a little. And Eren wasn’t even being mean; if anything, he looked apologetic now. He looked at Jean pitifully like he’d just realised he was giving a death sentence to a man who was already dying. Jean couldn’t find the strength to tell Eren to fuck off; instead, he slumped on his couch without a sound. It was true, wasn’t it? No one would ever stay. But the real question was why did he care? He managed just fine by himself, had never needed anyone and he never would. He was still young. He was still in his twenties, he was still pretty. People still wanted him. Right? Eren let out a heavy sigh, disturbing Jean’s train of thought.

“You’re an asshole,” he murmured, and Jean rolled his eyes. “And a bastard. And most of the time I fucking despise your guts.”

“Are you getting somewhere with this? ‘Cause y’know, to save time, I’ve heard it all before.” Jean looked up, grimacing at the guy.

“If you’d shut up for just five seconds, you’d know I was gonna say “but” next.”

“First you complain ‘cause I don’t talk, then you complain—”

“Just shut up,” Eren groaned. “ _But_ even though you really piss me off, I didn’t come here just because you told me to come. I came ‘cause I wanted to come. And I swear to god if you say something nasty now, I will break your nose.” Jean didn’t say anything, not because he thought Eren would actually realize his threat, but because he couldn’t think of anything to say. The guy walked closer and sat down next to Jean. Jean moved a little farther instinctively.

“I guess I… I guess some part of me enjoys your company. When you’re not acting like a total douche.” Eren fiddled with his fingers and Jean’s stomach turned nastily. _Just shut up, shut up, shut up_ , his mind screamed. No confessions, _please_. Eren sighed again.

“But then you always surprise me with what a massive dick you can be.” He rubbed his sweaty palms against his thighs. “And when you pissed Connie off, I didn’t think even _you_ could do that.” Jean’s heart sunk. Connie had told Eren. For some reason that hurt more than anything. He knew he deserved it, but this was Connie. No matter how angry, he never talked bad about people. Well, he wasn’t usually angry, so what did Jean know. He groaned and rested his head on his hands.

“What did you even do to the poor guy?” Eren questioned with sincere astonishment. Jean shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Connie had probably given his side of the story already, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled.

“I guess so. So you don’t know they’re engaged?” Jean’s head snapped up and his eyes blew open.

“Who are?” he asked nervously, blinking at Eren.

“Con and Sasha of course.” Wow. Just when Jean thought nothing could hurt worse, the pain took on a completely different level. It twisted and throbbed in his guts, spilling to his chest. This was his best friend, the guy who had been in love with the same gal for as long as he could remember, and he had always talked about how he’d marry Sasha one day. And now Jean had to hear about this from _Eren_ of all people.

“When?” he asked weakly. Eren pondered for a moment, worrying his lip.

“Uh, you mean how long they’ve been? I don’t know. You remember I told you about the big party they had? Yeah, that was their engagement party. They told everyone there.”

“Who’s everyone?” Jean croaked.

“You know, their friends. Connie’s sister and brother. People close to them.” Minus Jean. He hadn’t been there, he should’ve been there. He would’ve behaved and been happy for them. He buried his face in his hands and took a deep breath. He should’ve been there, he should’ve heard this from Connie, not Eren.

“You alright?” Eren asked quietly. Jean just hummed against his palms. Whatever. He didn’t need anyone, right?

“Look…” And then Eren placed his hand on Jean’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze. “You should talk to him, to Connie.” Every fibre in Jean’s body wanted to push the guy off and out of his apartment, to punish him for ever even talking to Connie, but he didn’t. It didn’t matter, he’d done this to himself, and it wasn’t Eren’s fault. The fact that he was able to admit that to himself surprised him a bit, before it got buried in all the negative thoughts about Eren.

And then he was thinking about Marco out of the blue, and he realised something else. He wasn’t angry at the guy. No, the only person at whom he was angry was himself. Somehow that depressed him even more, not being able to pin this, to pin _anything_ on someone else. To realise that he was the one who kept fucking up consistently was a gloomy thought. And maybe if he wasn’t such a pathetic loser, he could’ve tried to fix things. Like maybe invent a time machine, undo every stupid thing he’d ever done and voilà.

Undo ever even meeting Marco. The thought appeared out of nowhere, and he didn’t know where or why, but there it was.

But just like Eren said, people tolerated him because he was attractive. One by one they’d all lose interest the second Jean would lose his looks.

Eren’s hand still rested on his shoulder, and Jean gave in to the melancholia gnawing his bones. He’d take what he could as long as he could. He collapsed on his side, his head falling in Eren’s lap, and the guy let out a surprised _oh_. He didn’t say anything else though, just ran his hand through Jean’s hair, and the blonde sighed and closed his eyes.

Eren spent the night at his place, something he hadn’t done too often. Not when they both were sober, anyway. They didn’t speak in the morning, and Eren kissed Jean at the door before he left. The blonde didn’t turn away, but didn’t lean in the kiss, either. Eren didn’t mind.

 

A week down the drain and not a peep from Marco. Every time Jean’s phone made a sound, his heart jumped a little just to sink again when it wasn’t the stupid freckled brunette with ridiculous dimples. At this point he didn’t even pretend anymore, he really wanted to hear from the guy. He wanted Marco to remember him for at least a whole twenty seconds that it would take him to write a message to Jean. He needed to have the upper hand, he needed to be the one with the last word. Right now he was fucking starving for Marco’s attention, completely in the darkness whether Marco ever sacrificed a moment to think of him. He had never craved for anyone to notice him this hard, and he didn’t even know _why_.

There was nothing special about Marco, right? Right. Except everything was special about him, and somehow the guy had managed to build a nest deep inside Jean’s brain like a parasite. It made him sick, the way this person had some kind of a mental chokehold on him. He had a nightmare that kept disturbing his nights over and over again, except this time he didn’t dream of John dying in his arms, he dreamed of his own death. He dreamed John holding him as his own blood stained the white bathroom tiles, his vision quickly getting blurrier and blurrier, and he tried to scream for John to save him. He tried to raise his head from his brother’s lap but he couldn’t. The last thing he saw before he died, night after night, was Marco in his brother’s face. Then he woke up to the harsh reality with his heart hammering in his chest.

He’d never seen these dreams before; it had always been John that had died. He didn’t know what had changed, but something had and it scared him. And so he stopped telling himself that nothing mattered and in the middle of the one night that he finally had enough, he picked up his phone and called Connie. Maybe the guy wouldn’t pick up, and the truth was, it _mattered_. It mattered whether he’d pick up or not, and he mattered. He had always mattered, ever since they were kids to this moment. Connie was everything that mattered.

Of course he didn’t pick up. Every long beep the line gave Jean, his shoulders felt a little heavier. He finally gave up, trying to shake the feeling of utter failure and rejection out of his gut. He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep again, but early in the morning he woke up to his phone ringing.

 

“Hey.” Jean turned around to face the familiar voice, shadowing his eyes with his hand. The winter was finally giving way to spring, the sun hanging high in the sky, warming Jean’s back as he stood in front of the coffee shop he and Connie always went to. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but this place had become their regular even with its ridiculously expensive beverages.

“Hey,” he greeted with a weak smile. Connie watched him for a moment but made no comment of the fading bruise under his eye, just jerked his head towards the entrance of the café. Jean nodded. As they made their way inside, the little bell above the door announcing everyone of their arrival, Connie unzipped his jacket.

“Did you wait long?” he asked casually, walking in front of Jean. He walked behind two people standing at the counter, making their orders, and turned to Jean. The blonde blinked, and shook his head hastily.

“Nah, not too long.” That was a lie. He’d been way too nervous to stay home so he had got out, walked around and ended up standing outside the coffee place for a good twenty minutes. It was all good, though, just standing outside in the fresh air made his head clear a bit, as cliché as it was. He had had plenty of time to decide what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. This time he wasn’t making any mistakes, like being a wanker for example. This time he wasn’t going to tell lies. He was also ready to beg if it was going to come to that, he was ready to get on his knees and fucking cry if nothing else was going to work. Connie eyed him in silence, his face unreadable.

“Good.” That was it. _Good_. Nothing else. His voice was neutral and he turned his back to Jean again, shoving his gloves in his coat’s pockets. Jean stared at his feet and he felt his cheeks burning with humiliation and shame. The people in front of them slid off the counter and Jean heard Connie place his order. Green tea with honey. And then a completely different yet ever so familiar voice called Jean’s name.

Of all the coffee joints in all the towns in all the world, he walks into mine.

“Hey, Jean.” When Marco smiled, he smiled with his whole face, his eyes twinkling, his eyebrows drawing up and oh god the dimples. “I almost didn’t see you there.” He was wearing the same, grey scarf that Jean had seen on him before.

“Hi.” When Jean tried to smile, it felt like his face was cracking in two, his lips dry, his jaw tightening and the corner of his eye twitching. He must’ve looked like a scarecrow.

“What a coincidence,” Marco said and Jean could’ve sworn he heard delightment in the brunette’s voice.

“Coincidence,” Jean parroted. Marco nodded. He took a breath, but before whatever he wanted to say came out, a shorter person appeared on his side out of nowhere. Both of their eyes fell upon… Him? Her? Jean wasn’t sure. The person had a very androgynous look, their blonde hair in a messy ponytail, and it was _real_ blonde. Nothing like Jean’s fake-ass colour. Of course it made Jean feel just a little inferior, the feeling like a pinprick on his skin.

“All the tables are taken, you want to sit at the counter?” It was a he, Jean decided, although if he’d ever talk with the person on the phone, he could easily be fooled. Marco smiled his usual smile and hummed.

“Sure. Oh and, uh, this is Jean,” he directed the person’s attention to Jean, who was standing awkwardly in place, and the blonde’s blue eyes – because of course he had to have blue eyes on top of the blonde hair – followed Marco’s extended hand. He caught Jean’s gaze and smiled. “Jean, this is Armin.”

Oh… _Oh_.

“Nice to meet you,” Armin stretched his hand, and Jean accepted the gesture clumsily. He nodded in response, trying to smile as naturally as possible. The short blonde had warm hands and his smile was just as genuine and sincere as Marco’s. And as their hands parted, Connie suddenly made his way into the conversation. He leaned past Jean, his hand making its way to Armin and Marco, his other hand holding the cup of tea, and he announced his name with a wide grin. Both Armin and Marco shook the offered hand, introducing themselves politely. Small talk, Jean’s worst enemy. No matter how much he studied the human mind and behaviour, he could never understand people’s inexplicable need to socialize with people they didn’t even know.

“Wait,” Connie then spoke, his eyebrows knitting together. “I’ve talked to you on the phone.” He was looking at Armin, and the guy glanced at Marco confusedly. _What?_ Jean raised his gaze and he caught Marco’s eyes that had widened a little.

“Jean forgot his phone to your place, right? I remember your name, unless Jean knows someone else named Armin.” And then Connie was looking at him, actually they all were, and Jean was staring at Marco, who was probably thinking the same thing. He looked like a man who had just realised something really important, something like ‘oh god I left the stove on when I left my apartment three days ago’. Shit. Armin blinked and smiled a little sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure…” he cleared his throat. “I don’t think you’ve got the right person.”

“Really?” A suspicious squint.

“Connie…” Jean mumbled, scratching the tip of his nose, and the guy looked at him. “Wanna go find us a table?”

“What?”

“Go find us a table,” Jean repeated a little more firmly, and then Connie received the message, loud and clear. He muttered something under his breath and exchanged the last pleasantries with Marco and Armin before leaving the conversation with a shove of his elbow between Jean’s ribs. Jean ground his teeth together, forcing his lips on a smile.

“Sorry, he got you mixed up with someone else,” he murmured when Connie was outside the audibility range. Armin shook his head and laughed a little.

“It’s fine, I got worried for a second that I was the one getting things confused.” He looked up to Marco, and the two exchanged a glance that gave Jean an uneasy feeling. Another pinprick dragging over his skin.

“Hey, uh, you mind if I talk to Jean for a while?” Marco asked Armin, who shook his head shortly.

“Not at all. I’ll be by the counter.” He smiled, looking over at Jean, and gave Marco another glance that made Jean sunk deeper into the feeling dwelling in the pit of his stomach. But then he was gone and it was just them, and whatever Jean had decided to say to Marco the next time he was to see the guy had flown out of the window. He felt nervous and very much like not being here right now. Fortunately Marco broke the forming silence.

“How are you?” Always so very polite and so very considerate. Jean hummed and gave a lopsided, lazy shrug.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been in contact, I’ve been terribly busy with school and then Armin had some, ah, personal things and I’ve been spending most of what free time I have had with him.” Marco’s face fell into a frown, but he quickly flashed Jean a small smile. “I know it sounds like a really bad excuse, but I hope you didn’t think that…”

“Nah, didn’t give it much a thought.” A lie. It made Marco blink before he ran his hand over his ever so fucking neat hair swiftly.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat and swallowed. “Okay then.” He fell silent, and Jean couldn’t look him in the eyes. What was he supposed to say? ‘It’s fine, it’s not like I’ve been thinking about you constantly even though I should really hate you and hey, you made me feel like a worthless piece of shit and you probably don’t even realise it, because these were my rules, my game, right?’ Well, he could’ve said that if he had been stupid enough but he wasn’t. Instead he just shrugged again, staring at Marco’s feet.

“Yeah…” His voice sounded weaker than it had in his own head, and he bit his tongue.

“Okay. Well, Armin’s waiting for me, so…” This was stupid. This was beyond stupid. This was level ‘stop being so fucking stupid’ stupid. So Jean blurted out the first thing that came to his mind, still not daring to look up.

“So how’re you?” The words came out in a rush and Jean felt his face getting warmer all of a sudden. He hoped to god Marco didn’t see him blushing because _that_ would have been embarrassing. The question caught Marco by surprise, but Jean heard a faint smile in his voice when he spoke.

“I’m good, a little stressed and tired, but good.”

“Good.” Jean nodded.

“I have the, um, charity event coming this weekend,” Marco spoke. “I don’t know if you remember it but…”

“Yeah I remember. Your parents, right?” And then he finally felt brave enough to look Marco in the eye, and the brunette looked so calm and so gentle that Jean felt like a fucking moron, acting like a complete nutcase. Marco nodded happily.

“Yes, exactly.”

“So have you found someone to take there?”

“No, I have not.” Marco sighed. “In addition to all the other stress and anxiety with school and such, I’m freaking out over this, probably unnecessarily much.” He shuddered a little. Suddenly Jean realised there were dark circles under Marco’s eyes, something he hadn’t seen on the guy’s face before. Maybe once, that first time they had met, but after that… He always looked so full of life and so energetic, even to the point that it annoyed Jean. Now he looked tired, his skin a little grey under his freckles. He looked very much himself but at the same time something was definitely off.

“You alright?” He didn’t really think about it but it seemed like an appropriate question in this situation. Marco’s face melted into a smile that made something warm flicker in Jean’s chest.

“I’m fine, really. Thank you for asking, though.”

“You sure? ‘Cause, y’know…” There was no good way of ending that sentence, none whatsoever. Jean coughed. “I guess it’s only fair if you wanna… I dunno, cry against my shoulder sometime?” Apparently his tongue had a death wish since it worked on its own, betraying the rest of the body it was attached to. Jean gritted his teeth together, contemplating if he should just bite it off, and his face flamed up once again. Whatever, he decided, Marco looked suddenly really happy, his eyes twinkling again and Jean gave up on the thought of running out to the street and getting hit by a car.

“Really? Because I think I _could_ use a good cry…”

“I’m sorry but no, I was just trying to be nice. No crying, man, anything else but that.” The uncomfortable and panicky stare Jean gave him made Marco laugh so hard he spilled some of his coffee. He didn’t even notice it, covering his mouth with the back of his other hand. A few of the other customers turned to look at them curiously, and Marco swallowed rest of his laughter.

“What’s so funny? Wait, did you, you didn’t just make a joke? I thought we had an agreement, no more jokes from you.”

“Sorry Jean, you just looked so horrified. Did you think I was being serious?”

“I don’t know when you’re serious and when you’re not, but that was mean.” Jean wrinkled his nose. “People crying make me fucking uncomfortable.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t feel like crying,” Marco chuckled. “Not anymore at least.” The greyness had faded from his face and gotten replaced by a pink hue. Jean grinned.

“Good, yeah. Good.”

“You don’t, you don’t happen to be free this weekend?” Marco suddenly asked, and the pink colouring his tan face darkened.

“Well, since I won’t be working, I guess I am,” Jean pondered. Marco blushed even more furiously.

“You wouldn’t be interested in free food and, ah, alcohol?” If there was one thing Jean had learned in life, it was that there were no free meals. His eyes narrowed.

“What’s the catch?” he asked, his intense stare making Marco look away. He bit his lip, picking his fingers with his nails, and he looked like he was about to burst.

“Well…”

“You’re not asking me to the charity thing are you?” His guess was spot on. Marco shrunk a little.

“Eh…” he let out a weak breath. Jean shook his head.

“No way in hell,” he grunted. “Besides, I’m a guy, remember? 100 percent guy with a penis and the works.”

“I know, I know, but at this point I thought that if I just bring someone they won’t try to fix me up with every girl they lay their eyes on there.” Marco sighed, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “I can’t even cancel it because they’d never let me hear the end of it.” Jean licked his lips.

“Y’know what you need?”

“What?” Marco blinked.

“A lesbian.”

“…What?” he blinked again.

“A lesbian. Someone who won’t be attracted to you and is a gal.” Jean waited for Marco to let the information sink in before he continued. “You’ll tell your parents you’re seeing her and then conveniently sometime after the charity thingy she turns out to be a raging homosexual and dumps your _undoubtedly_ heterosexual ass. They can’t be mad at you because you’re heartbroken and completely clueless she swung that way.” He grinned at Marco’s baffled expression.

“Oh. Well, I suppose it’s an idea.”

“An idea? It’s a _genius_ idea,” Jean snorted. “Can’t go wrong with it.”

“I don’t know any lesbians,” Marco murmured, and he looked a little ashamed saying it. Jean clicked his tongue.

“Tell me one thing. D’you know any other gays besides me and well, your ex?” He didn’t want to use the blonde’s name, as ridiculous as it was. Marco thought about it briefly but shook his head then.

“Seriously? So you like, fill the gay quota of your friends. Except they don’t know you’re gay so I don’t know.” Jean hummed and tapped his lower lip with his finger. “You’re like a fish among the monkeys or something. Completely out of your natural habitat. You can’t climb trees Marco, get back in the water with the other homo fish.”

“You don’t make any sense,” Marco laughed and Jean shrugged.

“Maybe. Anyway, look,” he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve kept my friend waiting like an hour, and he already hates me enough as it is. So…”

“Oh, right.” Marco nodded hastily.

“See ya,” Jean smiled quickly, and they both set out finding their companions.

 

“Connie…” Jean found the guy sitting at the end of a long table with a few other people, and he was staring at his empty cup. When he looked up, Jean could feel the air around them freezing, Connie’s grey eyes narrowing. “I-I’m really sorry, look…” He sat at the opposite chair, Connie following him incessantly with his gaze.

“What the fuck, Jean? _You_ asked me here and then you go ahead and chit-chat with the, whatever his name was, for like forever.” He glared at Jean, keeping his voice low. “I am so pissed off right now.”

“I know, I’m sorry Con,” he groaned. “I’m an idiot, I know.”

“Who was the guy, anyway?”

“What? Just… Y’know. A friend or something.”

“Or something?”

“It’s, it’s… Yeah, a friend.”

“And what the fuck was the deal with the Armin guy? Don’t even try to tell me I’m getting him mixed up, I remember his name.”

“Yeah, it’s just that… He has, like, this thing where he doesn’t remember that certain things have happened. It’s a, um, condition of his…” Jean had no idea where the bullshit was coming from, but Connie the poor bastard actually believed him, his eyes widening.

“Really? Damn,” he shook his head.

“No, y’know what? No he doesn’t. The guy you talked to on the phone was the other guy, Marco.”

“Huh? I don’t understand.”

“He’s weird, I don’t know, he told you his name was Armin.”

“But… why?”

“Because he’s a weirdo. In fact, if you ever run into him again, you shouldn’t talk to him. He might try to hit on you or something.”

“Really?” Connie’s eyebrows shot up.

“Yeah. He’s a complete wacko.” Jean pressed his lips together in a thin line, shaking his head slowly. “ _And_ unpredictable. Dangerous, even.” Connie’s eyebrows fell back in place and Jean knew he had taken it a step too far.

“You don’t want me talking to him, just say it.” Connie rolled his eyes. “So how long have you known him?” Jean shrugged, resting his elbows against the table and crossing his arms.

“I don’t know, like a month? Something like that.”

“And he’s a friend?”

“Well, eh…” Friends? No. Something so very complicated that thinking about it made Jean’s guts turn? Yes. “More like a customer.”

“So, what, you run errands for him? Or whatever it is that you do.” Connie didn’t sound suspicious or sarcastic, but they both knew what he meant with the remark. ‘I have no idea what you do and we both know that.’ No lies, Jean had promised, right?

“No, I… I keep him company from time to time. For pay.” Connie didn’t have to say anything out loud because his face was swimming with questions and Jean noticed them well enough. He sighed. “I don’t know man, apparently he’s got too much money and he doesn’t know how else to spend it.”

“I want to ask you something now and I’d very much like it if you answered it honestly.” Connie sounded calm. He wasn’t still quite himself, but this was far better than before. They were getting there. Jean nodded, waiting for the guy to continue.

“What, what is it exactly that you do? What _is_ your job?” Connie paused briefly. “Because I’m sick of guessing and I want to know.” No lies. Easier said than done. Jean wasn’t worried that the guy would think less of him if he knew, because he knew Connie probably didn’t think much of him right now as it was, but still it felt hard to say it out loud. After all, he’d been keeping this secret for about three, four years now, and maybe Connie would think it was no big deal, and that would leave Jean wondering what was it that he had been so afraid of? Right. Everything. Because he was a wuss and _that_ was the truth. He swallowed and dropped his gaze on the table between them.

“Just promise me one thing, Con.” He drew invisible patterns on the surface with his fingertip, biting his lip.

“Sure.”

“Don’t judge me, okay?”

“I never judge you, Jean. Not even when you do the stupidest things I’ve ever witnessed anyone doing.” When Jean looked up, Connie was grinning at him, and he looked like himself again. And Jean felt safe. He rolled his eyes but responded with a lopsided smile.

“Right. I’m sorry I sometimes forget it.” He wasn’t good with emotional crap or talking about feelings, but he knew how much Connie appreciated it, and maybe it was time for him to step out of his comfort zone for once. The guy was a sap and as sentimental as they came and it was no secret, and sure enough, the grin on Connie’s face faded into a soft smile and Jean felt relieved he wouldn’t need to give his much practised yet embarrassing speech of how sorry he was for everything. This was enough.

“Okay, so look. I’m, umm, a stripper.” A dramatic silence. Or maybe just uncomfortable.

The expression on Connie’s face was much less satisfying than Jean had anticipated after making his confession. Sure, he squinted at Jean, looking a little puzzled and leaning closer like he hadn’t quite heard the blonde, but after a moment’s consideration he just shrugged, letting out a long sigh.

“Damn. I guess I owe Sasha ten bucks.”

“What?” So not the thing he’d expected Connie to say.

“We had this little game where we tried to guess what it is that you do. Her latest guess was a phone sex operator.” Connie scratched his head. “Mine was that you mow the lawn at the golf club.”

“They’re not even open during the winter,” Jean pointed out, and Connie clapped his hands together with a loud _ha_.

“And _that’s_ why it’s suspicious, and would suit your suspicious ass perfectly,” he pointed his finger at Jean, his eyebrows shooting up. “Anyway, her guess was closer, so thanks for that. I was just about to change it to a lingerie model. Shit, I would’ve totally won with that.” Jean rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, you two need to get a hobby. Go jogging in matching shell suits or something.” Connie snorted loudly.

“Anyway, a stripper huh?” he eyed Jean for a moment and then nodded approvingly. “Yeah, I _guess_ I can kinda see it…” Jean flipped the guy off.

“Shut up.” They smiled simultaneously, and finally Connie tapped his cheek and nodded in Jean’s direction.

“So what happened there?”

“Eh, it’s long story.” No lies. “Occupational hazard.” Well it wasn’t a lie… sort of. Connie didn’t seem completely happy with the answer, pursing his lips, but he shrugged it off nevertheless. He’d get his answers eventually; he just needed to tread cautiously.

“Sooooo, you give the guy like private sessions, huh?” A little annoying wink to top the comment off.

“What? No.” The question sunk a little deeper and Jean leaned back in his chair. “ _What_? No. You’re disgusting.” He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, looking a little insulted, but Connie only laughed.

“The stripper calls me disgusting,” he mocked. “That’s ironic.” The grimace Jean shot at him made him laugh out loud.

“I shouldn’t’ve told you anything.”

 

They talked like they always had, the subjects flowing easily from one to another, the world around them slowing down and coming to a complete halt. Or so it felt, all the other noises around them fading out and disappearing. The universe had started to balance itself ever so slowly, and for once Jean listened to everything Connie had to say. He wasn’t the most interesting person himself, so it was only fair this way. Connie probably couldn’t have cared less about Jean’s lack of clean clothes or his boring life in which nothing ever happened, but he never complained. All was well. And eventually when they arrived on the one subject that had torn them apart in the first place, the air got a little heavier, but Jean had promised: no lies, no mistakes, definitely no fucking up.

“So…” Connie began carefully. Of course Jean knew what was coming up, there was only so much fat they could chew before they would have to say something meaningful. He braced himself, maybe not for the questions, but the humiliation. He was an idiot, after all, and they were here because of him. Jesus, what a stubborn idiot he was.

“I need to ask you this,” Connie sighed and then cleared his throat a few times. “I, I know it’s not—”

“You wanna ask if I’m using.” Bingo. Connie bit his lips. Jean let out a heavy sigh. “’S fine, I get it.”

“It’s just that—” Jean threw his hands up, and Connie quietened.

“I know.” He couldn’t look the guy in the eye, not when he looked so apologetic, so guilty. “I’m not.” It wasn’t a lie.

“Last time…” Connie was speaking carefully, like he was walking on thin ice, every word making it crackle slightly.

“I, uh, I might’ve had a minor relapse.” Jean coughed dryly. “Just a minor. I, I needed to, to stay awake.” Connie stared at him incredulously. Not good enough.

“I—I had the nightmare. The one with…” A deep breath. It was just a word, just a word among the others. Nevertheless, his throat felt strangled as he managed to push it out. “The one with John.” Connie knew the one. Jean had told him long ago, something he wasn’t sure if he should have, but he was glad now he had. He didn’t need to explain it because Connie understood. He understood much more than Jean gave him credit for, and it made him feel bad. He should’ve trusted the guy more often. As Connie mulled Jean’s words over, Jean sunk into his own thoughts. He felt like they had moved forward a hundred years, like everything that had ever happened had happened decades ago. Everything had been so out of place for so long that he didn’t even recognise himself anymore. He had completely forgotten everything, everything Connie had done for him and everything he had put Connie through.

Shit. If someone had asked them why were they friends, neither of them could’ve been able to answer it. Or that’s how it had been, but the truth was that Jean knew perfectly why he was friends with Connie. He was the parasite, the leech hanging onto Connie’s side, and Connie was the indifferent host who could live with it as long as the leech didn’t get too greedy. Jean didn’t get greedy, but he got hostile, threatening the host’s life to the point where it had to get rid of him.

He remembered the time he had used to hate the guy, not because there was something wrong with him, but because there absolutely wasn’t. The pieces were beginning to fall into place. He was the one studying human mind and behaviour yet he couldn’t analyse his own shitty behaviour objectively. It was so much easier to act first and think of the reasons and consequences later, which in his case meant after everything had been torn apart and stomped to pieces and there was nothing left but sit on the ruins and suffer.

“I wish you’d talked to me.” Maybe there would be a time in Jean’s life when he’d stop worrying everyone so much, but this wasn’t it. No, this was far from it and there was nothing he could say to Connie that would make it better. So he shrugged heavily, blowing air out of his aching lungs.

“You know me,” he murmured. “It’s not easy.” Connie hummed in affirmation.

“I know.” He sucked his lower lip into his mouth, his eyes moving to stare at the wall behind Jean. Barely noticeable nod of his head. “I know.”

“But maybe I’ll, y’know… Learn.” Jean’s hands had fallen into his lap, his fingernails picking the skin on his thumbs. “’M sorry.” His voice was a mere whisper.

“It’s fine.” The truth was that Connie was relieved. All he had wanted was Jean to apologise, to do it on his own and now he had. He would never say it to Jean but he felt proud of the guy. It was like watching someone realise something really important, something everyone else had realised long ago.

“So we’re cool?” Jean asked with uncertainty. The tough act had been dropped long time ago and now he looked exactly the way he was underneath the raw surface: insecure and in need of validation. He wasn’t that different from other people and Connie knew just how much the guy wanted to belong somewhere, too. Even if it was just here with Connie, in this moment. Another thing he would never say out loud, but it didn’t matter. Maybe Jean knew it anyway; maybe he knew how much Connie knew without him having to tell the short-haired guy anything.

“We’re cool.”

 

After the coffee which Jean never had, they had lunch for which Connie paid. Jean thanked him humbly. Maybe the universe wasn’t in perfect balance yet, the wounds still a little too fresh and little too sore, but at least Jean wasn’t running anymore. Not from Connie, anyway. He finally let the guy in his head, at least to some parts of it, stopped avoiding things, at least _some_ things, and stopped telling lies. The truth will set you free was what they said, but to Jean it felt like he was giving something away, like he was giving Connie something to tie him in place in case he’d ever try to run again.

But maybe it was time to stop running for good. Jean had always kept at least one back door open at all times, one reason to change the scenery, one excuse to go and never come back. Whatever it was that had made him run in the first place wasn’t going anywhere. He was carrying it with him like he would as long as he lived and starting anew didn’t really mean starting anew. It only meant he could breathe for a while until the cloud hanging heavy above him would catch him again and make him want to run again.

Maybe it was time for him to do something about it. Connie spoke the words easily but he knew it wasn’t easy for Jean to hear them. But he listened carefully anyway and he didn’t push the guy away when he offered his help. Yes, Jean knew Connie was there and would be if he ever needed him. Yes, it made him feel claustrophobic and uncomfortable, but he reminded himself that this was Connie. This was the guy who had seen Jean at his best and at his worst and he knew Jean probably better than the blonde knew himself. He had to remind himself that he trusted Connie, and he always would, come what may.

“I have one more thing I need to tell you so brace yourself.” Connie emptied the rest of his ice water and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Shoot,” Jean responded.

“Okay so,” Connie cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He looked excited. “I proposed to Sasha.” His voice trembled and he held his breath, eyebrows high on his forehead, waiting for Jean’s reaction. This was the part where Jean should’ve pretended to be surprised, like he didn’t already know, but he failed at it.

“Oh. I mean… Cool, man.” Connie’s face fell.

“Please curb your enthusiasm will you,” he mumbled, obviously disappointed.

“No, I’m really happy for you guys. I just kinda heard about it already.” Jean coughed. “Sorry.”

“From whom?” Connie asked surprised.

“From, eugh, Eren…” Jean muttered the name, wrinkling his nose.

“I didn’t know you guys still kept in touch.”

“Yeah we don’t. Anyway, congratulations, I didn’t think you’d ever have the balls to do it.” Connie leaned over the table to give Jean an extended middle finger, making the blonde snort loudly.

“Shut up.”

 

Jean let their conversations wash over him as he made it home several hours later. They had never talked like they did that day; they had never broken open so many locked closets or dragged out so many skeletons. Jean felt exhausted but happy. When was the last time he had been happy? Nowadays what he felt most was either exhaustion or contentment enough to exist and be awake. He had forgotten what it was like to breathe easily without a weight pressing against his chest, crushing his lungs and making his heart ache with every beat.

That was until he remembered Marco again. The only subject he hadn’t brought up with Connie. He felt himself sinking again into the depths of self-loathing and self-pity. It was too easy to give in, to reassure himself that there was nothing he could but suffer. After all, he had mastered the art of dwelling in misery a long time ago.

Unless, of course, he actually _did_ something about it. That thought came onto him when he had already chosen Marco’s number and pressed the phone on his ear. What was he going to say? He didn’t know. He trusted it would all come to him, he just needed to act without thinking, he needed to rush forward before he’d lose his fifteen minutes of courage and determination. His throat had run dry and his heart was slowly climbing up in his chest, but he ignored them both. Just like he ignored the cold sweat covering his skin.

“Hi Jean.” Marco sounded exactly like himself on the phone and it startled Jean a bit.

“Yeah, hi.” What was he going to say? “What’s up?”

“Oh, you know. Surprised you called.”

“Yeah, me too.” What the hell was he going to say? “Look, I, uh…”

“Yeah?”

“I… I got thinking about the, the…” The? “The charity… thing.” He had no idea in which direction this was going to go.

“You did?” Surprise in his voice. Maybe the good kind of surprise, Jean wasn’t sure.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I, uh, I might’ve an idea.” He did, actually.

“You mean the,” Marco cleared his throat. “The lesbian idea.” Jean let out a short laugh.

“It sounds weird when you put it like _that_.” He was walking around his apartment, something he did whenever he was on the phone, the movement helping him think. “But yeah, that.”

“Okay,” Marco replied. He sounded reserved.

“I might, I might know someone.”

 

It was a perfect plan. She was from a wealthy, respected family so she was no stranger to fawning and eating dinner with ten different spoons and forks. She knew how to act mannerly, she knew exactly what to say to make people eat from her hand, and Jean _knew_ she would charm the wits out of Marco’s parents.

It wasn’t easy, though. Ymir protested the idea more than Christa, who on the other hand seemed a-okay with it. Ymir went on and on about her girlfriend _not_ being an accessory you could just borrow whenever you felt like it.

“He’s _gay_ , Ymir,” Jean rolled his eyes. “He won’t be hitting on Christa, man.” Ymir snorted loudly on the other end of the line.

“I don’t _care_ , you think he’d be the first gay guy having the hots for her?” She clicked her tongue. “I’ve never even met the guy, I ain’t trusting him.”

“Well how about you trust me?”

“Eh…” Ymir kept a long pause. “Nah.”

“Just give the phone back to Christa,” Jean sighed. Ymir was silent for a moment, but eventually she huffed loudly.

“Hey.” It was Christa. “Sorry, you know how Ymir is.” Jean heard Ymir talking sharply in the background and he was pretty sure it was something he didn’t want to hear.

“Yeah, she’s crazy alright.”

“That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.”

“Right. Sorry. Maybe you’re the crazy one.” Christa laughed.

“I can do it, it’s no problem.” This time Jean heard Ymir’s voice loud and clear, the girl cursing like a sailor. “And Ymir’s fine with it too.”

“You sure? I owe you, like, big time.”

“You must really like the guy then.”

“Who? Oh, no. I, uh, I just…” Jean shrugged his shoulders before realising Christa couldn’t see him. “I promised to help ‘im out, y’know.” He bit his lip as he listened to the silence. When Christa spoke, she was unmistakeably smiling.

“Okay.” She sounded amused. “So, this Saturday?”

“Yeah. I’ll give him your number, that okay?” Christa hummed in affirmation.

“Talk to you later, then.”

 

For all week he waited Marco to ask why was he helping him. It was rather unusual for him to do anything for anyone on his own will, and he made up a bunch of weak explanations in case Marco or anyone else was to ask. None of the excuses included him admitting that he just wanted to spy on Marco; he wanted to see if the guy would talk about him when he wasn’t there. He also didn’t want to think of anyone hitting on Marco at the charity thing, gay or not, but that thought he banished pretty quickly. Christa would tell him everything in detail without him even having to ask. To his fortune or maybe disappointment, Marco didn’t ask. He only thanked Jean abundantly, promising to make up his troubles one way or another. And Jean didn’t say the insane things that popped in his head, like ‘you can thank me naked’.

All Saturday he fidgeted like crazy, channelling his nervousness in biting his nails and the skin around them, keeping a close eye on the clock. He kept texting back and forth with Ymir who promised to skin him alive in case Marco tried anything with Christa. She’d calmed down a bit, though, after meeting the guy, him picking Christa up with a fucking _limousine_. It was so damn pretentious, Ymir had told Jean, and Jean agreed, trying to imagine how tiny and sweet Christa had had to look next to the tall, well-built Marco. They probably looked like a real couple, and Jean felt a mixture of pride and jealousy as he imagined Marco introducing Christa to his parents. She would smile and curtsey and say something really tacky like ‘I can see where Marco has gotten his good looks and his intelligence’. She would make sure to praise his parents to the heaven and back, making their heads whirl with her skilful tongue. By the end of the night they would probably be planning Marco’s and Christa’s wedding, making Christa fucking _blush_ because she knew how to do that at will, and she would giggle and shush them gently as if embarrassed.

Jean was a genius, and he didn’t care if no one else thought so. He moved on to imagining how Marco would call his parents a few weeks later, all heartbroken how Christa had dumped him for someone else, and that someone else was a woman of all people. Maybe he would cry, just a little, just to assume his parents he felt really hurt and betrayed. It wasn’t his fault, he had really felt for the girl, but he couldn’t change her. No, he definitely hadn’t seen this coming, he had been too busy planning to ask her to marry him. Maybe that was laying it too thick, Jean thought, maybe keep it simple just be on the safe side. Yeah, that would work. Marco would be left alone by his parents for the time being, because no one in their right mind would try to pry about one’s love life after they had been dumped so brutally. Jean was a genius.

 

Eventually he wore himself out and fell asleep on his couch, his phone still in his hand. He dreamed of talking ducks and blue-furred men and didn’t remember either of those things when he woke up to the phone vibrating in his hand. It took him whole ten seconds to make sense of the time and the place, and still half-asleep he answered the phone.

“Mmmm,” was the only thing that came out.

“Hey, can you come and help me? I’m outside your place.” Jean blinked the grogginess away and jerked up.

“What? What’s wrong?” His heart picked up its pace and his mouth ran dry. Ymir would kill him with her bare hands if something had happened to Christa.

“Nothing’s wrong, I just need you to come and get Marco.”

“What?” This time it took him longer to react. “Why are you at my place?”

“Just come down, _please_ ,” Christa whined. She sounded impatient, very unlike of her, so Jean believed her at once and held back a long sigh, doing as he was told. As he pulled his shoes on and made it down the stairs outside, he yawned widely and checked the time. It was half past midnight, he must’ve been asleep at least three hours. He pushed the door of his building open and stepped into the night air, and immediately he spotted the white limo parked on the sidewalk. He took a deep breath and walked closer.

The rear door on the other side was open, so he walked around the car and leaning forward, peeked in. Christa smiled up at him, and nudged Marco, who was sprawled across the benches, his head resting on her lap, and he was snoring lightly.

“What the fuck?” Jean blurted.

“He’s just drunk,” Christa responded. “He didn’t remember where he lives so I brought him here.”

“Christa!” Jean cried out. “The guy doesn’t even drink!” Christa’s eyes widened a little and she mouthed ‘oh’.

“No wonder he got so drunk so fast,” she mused, wrinkling he nose. “He’s even weaker than you.” Then she was grinning mischievously, a little drunk herself. Jean was about to scold her, but the little grunt out of Marco silenced him. Christa nudged the brunette’s shoulder a little harder and soon enough his eyes opened.

“Come on, time to go home,” Christa spoke. She helped the guy in a sitting position, pushing him up and Jean grabbed his shoulder, making sure he didn’t fall forward. Marco’s lids hung heavy over his eyes and Jean cursed at Christa under his breath. The girl squinted at him without saying a word, and they helped the poor drunken bastard out of the car, Christa pushing and Jean pulling. He grouched a little and swung Marco’s arm over his shoulders, sinking a little under Marco’s weight, and grabbed his own arm around the guy’s waist. Marco came to and turned his head to face Jean, trying to focus his bleary gaze.

“Jean,” he slurred, and as if amused with himself, he repeated himself with a drunken smile. “Jea-aaan.”

“Yeah, hi.” Marco was heavier than he looked like, and Jean squeezed his side tighter, making sure the guy wouldn’t fall from his grip. Christa stepped out of the car, wiping wrinkles out of her dress and adjusted the heels on her feet. She looked really nice in her pale blue dress, so very not like her; she looked exactly like she belonged with the people she had spent the night with. Jean could imagine how much she must’ve hated that, and instead of barking at her again, he just thanked her once more. Christa smiled at him.

“It’s fine, I actually had fun. Plus Ymir really liked the dress, she’s been sexting me all night.” Christa licked her lips. “It turns me on when she gets a little jealous.” Jean rolled his eyes.

“Go home and fuck your girlfriend, I’ll handle—” he cocked his head to the side. “—him. But we’ll discuss this later.” Christa flashed him the sweetest smile she had probably been using on everyone all night long, and dived back into the limo. She wished them a good night and closed the door. The limo took off, leaving a cloud of fumes lingering in the air.

“Alright Marco, can you walk?” The brunette’s head snapped up and with much effort he peeled his closed eyes open. He didn’t say anything, that is if you didn’t count mumbling as talking, but when Jean took a step forward, Marco mimicked his movements and eventually they were moving ahead, slowly but firmly.

The real challenge was the stairs. Marco didn’t seem to understand how stairs worked when he was drunk, and Jean wondered if the guy had ever been drunk before. Then again, Jean wasn’t really one to talk, he couldn’t even figure out how his jeans worked once he got drunk enough. The whole way up Marco stayed quiet, and Jean concentrated on making it up to his apartment alive and felt grateful he didn’t have to use his energy to talking.

Inside, he hauled Marco at the bed, the guy falling with a thud. Jean groaned loudly and stretched his arms, rubbing his neck. He grabbed Marco’s legs hanging out of the bed and pushed him on the bed completely, rolling him on his back. He was wearing a black suit that had probably looked _really_ good on him when he had been sober and still standing on his own feet. The suit looked expensive and alright maybe he still looked really good, so good that Jean stopped to just stare for a while at the brunette from head to toe. _Maybe_ undressed the guy with his eyes a little. The pants probably hugged his ass really deliciously and the jacket made his broad shoulders look even broader, in the best way possible.

Jean had a thing for ties. He hated wearing them and never did in fact, but he enjoyed looking at guys wearing them. He enjoyed looking at Marco wearing it, something he had just learned a second ago. Actually he enjoyed just plain looking at Marco, the way the dress shirt sat insanely well against his torso, so well it had probably been tailor-made for him, like obviously everything else he was wearing now. Even the shoes looked like they followed the shape of Marco’s feet just so. With that thought, he pulled them off the guy carefully and dropped them on the floor. He imagined how Marco had looked in his full attire, wearing his neat hair and a smile that could be seen from the other side of the town.

Shit, he wasn’t getting hard at this, was he? How unfair. Marco was unconscious and he was getting mentally off at the idea of Marco wearing nothing else than the tie, maybe tied around his wrists, or over his eyes…

Yeah, he was definitely getting harder. And it was definitely a little creepy, so he forced himself to cool down and think of other thoughts, like the fact that he was really tired and he should follow Marco’s example and pass out. He wondered idly if he should try and undress the guy – in a completely non-sexual way of course – because it was a shame the suit was getting so wrinkly. But since there was no way of doing that without Jean getting a massive hard-on even at the slightest idea, he stumbled over to his couch and crashed on it with a loud sigh. Maybe he could jerk off really quickly, get it out of his system while the image of Marco tying him up was still fresh in his mind.

“Jean?” Or not. He didn’t say anything, maybe Marco was sleep-talking, it was better to wait it out. “Jean?” Shit.

“Mmm,” he replied lazily. He was surprised the guy even remembered where he was, considering his current state. The bed creaked under Marco’s weight.

“I feel sick.” Jean jumped up.

“How sick?” he asked. Marco moaned painfully.

“Like throwing up sick,” he uttered.

“Don’t throw up in the bed,” Jean cried. “I’ll get you a bucket.” Seeing or hearing people vomit made Jean sick, he couldn’t stand it, neither the smell nor the noises. He could have tried to walk Marco to the bathroom, but he didn’t want to risk the guy throwing up on the way, so he emptied the contents of his litter bin and hurried it to Marco. Somehow the brunette was able to push himself up and just as Jean extended the bin, Marco leaned his head in and puked. He didn’t even take it in his own hands, and Jean turned his head to the other way, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath. He already felt his stomach gathering stuff to send up, but at least Marco was a quiet puker.

“Sorry.” Marco’s head was still halfway in the bin and his voice came out muffled, echoing a little in the bin. Jean cleared his throat and breathed in through his mouth.

“’S fine Marco, just tell me when you’re ready.” A stifled groan and the brunette flopped back in the bed. Jean, his head still turned in another direction set the bin on the floor, next to the bed, and straightened up.

“How you feel?” he asked, and Marco fumbled for the pillow with his eyes closed and pulled it over his face.

“My head’s spinning,” he mumbled. Jean bit back a smile.

“Yeah you’re pretty drunk, how’d that happen?” He sat on the edge of the bed, pushing the vomit bin a little further with his foot.

“I dunno.” Marco lifted the pillow slightly and opened his other eye to look at Jean. “Hi.” Jean chuckled.

“Hello,” he answered softly.

“I’m drunk.”

“Hi drunk, I’m Jean.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because I live here.”

“Oh.” Marco dropped the pillow back over his face, squeezing it with his hand. Jean worried his lower lip and watched the steady rise and fall of Marco’s chest. He was picking the skin around his fingernails again, and there was a tiny part of him that wanted to extend his hand and touch Marco. He wanted to straighten the tie on his neck, tuck the shirt back in his pants. This could have been another weird dream and maybe Marco wasn’t there at all, maybe he’d disappear from the lightest touch, leaving behind only the expensive suit. He cleared his throat.

“We should, um, get you outta those clothes, you’d be more comfortable.” To his surprise Marco reacted right away, removing the pillow and sitting up with great difficulty. Jean stood up and held out his hand, and Marco took it, scooting over to the edge of the bed.

“So, y’know, take the jacket off.” Marco’s hand dropped in his lap and he raised his head, looking up at Jean, squinting. It seemed he had to consider the command for a moment before he was able to register it. But finally the jacket came off, clumsily, and Jean had to help Marco’s other arm out of the sleeve. He then bent forward to unbutton the buttons of Marco’s shirt after he had removed the tie (he kept his thoughts strictly restrained). He tried to ignore the smell of Marco and the smooth skin slowly revealing from under the fabric, tried to ignore the way Marco shivered at the rather cold air after Jean helped him out of the shirt. What he couldn’t ignore was the way Marco’s nipples hardened, his muscles twitching under his skin as he shuddered again.

“And then the pants,” he murmured. Marco didn’t question anything, just stood up shakily, placing his warm hands on Jean’s shoulders. Jean took a deep breath and concentrated on the blood rushing in his ears. His hands were shaking slightly as he unbuttoned and unzipped Marco’s pants. Marco’s head was slightly drooping, his eyes trying to fall closed, him fighting against it with all his might. Jean really didn’t want to pull the pants down; he really didn’t want his imagination running wilder as it already was. It would have been much easier if Marco had been butt-ugly and not rocking a delicious body. Maybe it was the hormones or some shit, Jean figured, he wasn’t usually this easily excited. Marco’s eyes were closed again and he looked like he was about to fall asleep on his feet, so Jean grabbed the pants by the belt loops and pulled them lower quickly. He didn’t check out the boxers Marco was wearing, definitely not. They were black, the brand written on the waistband.

“Sit down,” he ordered. Marco’s head snapped up and he opened his eyes wide, blinking them groggily. He then slumped down, wrapping his arms around himself. Jean crouched in front of him and pulled the brunette’s pants to his ankles, lifting each of the guy’s foot with his hand as he pulled them off, and then stood up.

“Cold,” Marco muttered. His skin was breaking out in goose bumps and he shivered violently.

“I know. Lie down, I’ll cover ya.” Marco did as told and crawled into the bed, burying his face in the pillow with a deep sigh. Jean pulled the blanket over him, tugging him in, and the brunette hummed contently.

“If you feel sick again, the bin’s right next to the bed,” Jean spoke gently, and on the spur of the moment he reached his hand and ruffled Marco’s messy hair. It weirded even himself out but Marco didn’t seem to take notice. He just let out another long sigh, sinking his face deeper into the pillow. Jean watched him for a moment, sucking his lower lip into his mouth.

“Night,” he finally murmured, unsure if the guy was even awake anymore.

“Where are you going?” Jean could barely make out what he said, half of the words drowning in the mushy pillow.

“I’mma crash the couch.”

“I’m cold.” Marco lifted his head a little, squinting at Jean tiredly. “Is cold.”

“You’ll get warm soon,” Jean hummed, and the little stubborn head shake Marco gave him, his nose turning up, forced him to bite back another smile. Jesus, the guy was like a little kid.

“Come ‘ere.” Marco’s head flopped back down and he dragged his other arm from under the pillow and patted the bed. Jean _tried_ to refuse, but the guy was drunk and stupid and would probably be really hangover next morning, and the couch was in fact really uncomfortable. Besides, it _was_ cold, his apartment leaking from every little crack and hole, the wind outside literally blowing through the place, and he didn’t have another blanket.

“Fine,” he shrugged, and quickly undressing himself he plunged into the bed and under the covers. Thank god he hadn’t yet turned his boxers inside out, that would’ve been gross. Marco rolled on his side and wrapped his arm around Jean immediately, pulling him close against his chest. Jean didn’t stop him; after all, it was warmer this way, Marco’s skin burning hot against his. He shivered and slipped his own arm around Marco. The guy pushed his legs in between his and they tangled together, every limb finding a place where it fit, every inch of exposed skin pressed together. Marco smelled like alcohol but for some reason it didn’t bother Jean, the smell was intoxicating and sweet, and it mixed nicely with the smell of Marco’s skin. The brunette’s chin rested against the top of Jean’s head, and Jean felt the guy’s heartbeat somewhere in between them, felt his chest heaving and his breathing getting shallower as he begun to drift off, just like that. Jean was tired but being this close to Marco made his blood rush, his face warm up and his stomach twitch. Maybe he hadn’t really thought this through, because he was now painfully aware of Marco’s body, of his warmth, smell, his naked skin, the freckles spread across his shoulders…

“Are you comfortable?” Marco suddenly murmured, his jaw moving against Jean’s head.

“’M fine,” he mumbled, and Marco’s arm curled even tighter around him.

“I missed you.” The words came out in a breath and at first Jean thought he had misheard them, but when Marco’s fingers spread against his back, his fingertips stroking his skin gently, he was pretty sure he had heard right.

“Oh,” he answered blankly. The hand moved a little, the fingers creating invisible patterns, and it gave Jean the chills that ran up and down his spine.

“Did you miss me?” The question caught him by surprise, blood rushing on his cheeks and he wondered if Marco could feel the heat radiating from his face. Suddenly it wasn’t cold at all, his blood boiling in his veins and his stomach coiling with something he couldn’t quite put his finger in. This would be a ridiculously bad time to pop a boner.

“Euh…” As smooth as always. Even if Jean had known what to say, there was no way he would’ve been able to say it. But like always, Marco wasn’t drawn back by his lack of communication skills. He just half-hummed, half-chuckled, and planted a lazy kiss in Jean’s hair.

“You smell nice,” he whispered. The fingers dug into his skin, and it shouldn’t have felt as nice as it did. _This_ shouldn’t have felt as nice as it did. Marco shouldn’t have… But he did.

And there was the one thing, the one unspoken thing that was hanging over Jean like a rotting corpse, granted he had miraculously forgotten it for a passing moment. And now, he figured, now would be a perfect time to bring it up. Marco wouldn’t probably remember it tomorrow, and he was drunk enough to answer honestly.

“Marco…” he started. The brunette replied with a soft ‘yes’, his leg twitching a little. Jean swallowed, inhaling Marco’s scent and holding it in his lungs for as long as he could before he had to breathe again. “Why’d you leave me money last time?” He felt himself shrinking a little, his stomach now burning with the weird sensation, and sweat was starting to form on his forehead. Fortunately Marco was unaware of all these things, and Jean saw his Adam’s apple jump as he swallowed. He was quiet and Jean didn’t know if it was due to him thinking or if maybe he had passed out again. But then he moved his head, pulling it back so he could look down on Jean, the blonde hiding his face against Marco in embarrassment.

“Because…” Marco spoke, his words stumbling. “Because you told me to.”

“Yeah but…” Jean hated that Marco was right, but it wasn’t good enough. He wanted to hear Marco say it, say _anything_ , but mostly just say it wasn’t how Jean thought it was. “It was different last time.” Marco didn’t reply. He tried to see Jean’s face, moving a little further from the guy, but Jean followed quickly, his face burning so hot Marco must’ve felt it on his skin now. The hand on Jean’s back had gone limp, he wasn’t holding onto Jean anymore, and Jean felt terrified and humiliated and why hadn’t Marco passed out already, why did he have to still be awake.

“Jean…” Marco’s voice was quiet but surprised, and the blonde cringed at it. He ground his teeth together, ignoring Marco’s attempts to make him look up, ignored his hand sliding to his face, cupping his cheek. “I, I just did how you told me to.” Still not good enough. Jean squeezed his eyes shut.

“I’m not a…” he swallowed thickly, his voice trembling and his chest tightening. “I’m not a…” And then he breathed the last word out without a sound, Marco blinking at him.

“You’re not a what?”

“I’m not a whore.” His voice was weak, his palms sweaty and his mind a tight knot, and when Marco froze against him, he felt like running. He felt like jumping up and then jumping out of the window. This was too weird, too weird, and then Marco’s hand moved under his chin and forced him to look up, and he couldn’t fight it. Instead he kept his eyes tightly closed, pretended he didn’t feel Marco’s eyes studying his face in the darkness.

“I know that, why do you say something like that?” Jean was going to cry. “Jean? Look at me please.” He couldn’t. There was no way he could look at Marco now, not if he was going to hold the tears back. Marco’s thumb brushed over his jaw, over the corner of his mouth and then over his lips where it lingered, making the skin under it tingle. Then the thumb was gone and it was replaced by Marco’s lips. It was a quick and a dry kiss, but it left Jean craving for more.

“I never thought you were a whore.” Jean wasn’t going to cry. “Why do you even say anything like that?” Marco’s breath was hot and moist against his lips.

“Because we had sex.” His mouth was dry and when he swallowed, his tongue stuck on the roof of his mouth.

“I didn’t…” A pause. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d take it that way.” The hand let go of Jean’s chin and then the arm returned back around him. Marco buried his face in the messy, blonde hair and took a deep breath. They were both quiet for a minute or a two, and they felt like the longest minutes of Jean’s life. His mind was completely empty, there was absolutely nothing he could say. He wasn’t sure how he felt, not even when Marco’s hand stroked his back in long, slow movements. Not even when Marco murmured something that made his heart jump all the way up to his throat and his cock respond immediately.

“I really like you Jean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I always end all the chapters the same way. I didn't plan it, I swear, but after 14 000 words and 35 pages I needed to end this monster somewhere. That's right, 14k+ words. Guys, it's 2.30 am. I slept four hours last night. I am exhausted but happy. I love you I love you gimme some love I really could use it.
> 
> Look at my [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com), my tumblr is ~~amazing~~ really messy and NSFW.
> 
> PS. Can you spot the movie quote? If you can, bravo. If you know what movie it is, double bravo. Don't judge me I like the movie OK.
> 
> PPS. I'm putting the 'slow' in 'slow build', but it gets better. I SWEAR we are getting somewhere finally.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean only knows one story but even that he has forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited yet nervous yet excited I forgot a million things I wanted to sneak in this chapter but I'm impatient and I CAN'T, forgive me.
> 
> Whether you've been on this ride from the beginning, whether you're just joining in or hopped in in the middle or in third chapter, doesn't matter, this is to you. I love you I love you I love you.

If Jean had known the chain of events that would be set in motion the moment his phone had rang and he had been asked to give a birthday lap dance, would he ever had gone through with all this? That was the question that circled his mind and made him list all the things that had happened so far, all the things that had made his head swirl and spin out of control and quite frankly, all the things that had confused him beyond understanding. He didn’t like to be confused, he wasn’t used to being confused. He always had everything strictly under control; all the people he knew, isolated in their own compartments in his head and dissected and analysed until he was sure he knew everything there was to know about them. Until he was sure he knew how to predict them and their actions. There was a reason he didn’t trust many people, and there was a reason he didn’t let anyone close too easily.

When had been the last time anyone had told him they liked him? Apart from Eren who he didn’t count, and apart from his regulars who didn’t mean it, the last time had been when he had been seventeen, living with some guy because he had no money, no apartment, no anything. He couldn’t really count that, either, since the whole thing had been merely a power play, and he had realised later there had been nothing real about it.

Jean couldn’t think of anyone who had ever liked him for him, _genuinely_ liked him. Attraction and affection were two different things, he reminded himself. Maybe it was a little naïve but Marco’s words made his heart pound like crazy. Sure, Marco was drunk, and either he was the honest kind of drunk or the love-the-whole-world drunk, but it didn’t matter. Because Jean was hard as a goddamn rock and he didn’t know if he was embarrassed to be so aroused or aroused because he was so embarrassed. He felt completely at Marco’s mercy, completely unaware of what would happen next and it _excited_ him so much, because of all the unfamiliar situations he had ever been in his life, he had never felt so ready to give up control and just go with whatever was to come. It would probably cost him later but right now, with the darkness resting on them, he didn’t care.

And the wandering hand of Marco’s, the same hand that had been stroking his back just seconds ago had dropped at the waistband of his boxers and the curious fingers were sliding under it, the feeling making Jean’s skin break into goose bumps. He felt no shame anymore, he didn’t care about anything else than the hand that was now in his boxers, warm and exploring, squeezing his ass and it wasn’t him who sighed softly, but Marco.

“I really like you.” Marco could repeat the words over and over again, for the whole night for all Jean cared, and Jean could try and think of a response for all eternity and a day and not come up with one.

Sure, he _knew_ what he was obviously supposed to say, Marco wouldn’t remember it in the morning anyway he figured, but he was too confused. It bubbled underneath all the other emotions that were flickering in his hazy mind, and mostly he was just confused how the hell did they get here? In between this and the moment Marco had opened his door the first time, his eyes red and puffy and those mismatched, dirty socks on his feet, what the hell had happened?

He didn’t befriend customers.

He didn’t let his customers strip him free of all weapons, of all means of self-protection and then let them waltz into his life and into his world like it was nothing. Hell, he didn’t let _anyone_ do that.

He didn’t like his customers, he despised them. He didn’t stop and talk to them if he saw them on the street.

And yet, here they were; Marco’s hand feeling him up, his hot, ragged breath on his shivering skin and those unfair, probably false words seeding their plant in Jean’s mind. That seed was already growing, blooming, and every soft breath of Marco’s watered it, made it grow stronger. What was he supposed to do? Marco gave him a soft squeeze, his long fingers digging into the flesh of his ass and Jean’s hips jerked forward, and he didn’t even feel ashamed by the way his boner got caught in between them, poking against Marco demandingly. Especially since Marco answered with another squeeze, grinding his own hips against Jean.

Shit. Jean’s breath got stuck in his throat, and somehow through all the confusion his own hand had found its way on Marco’s hips, his fingers feeling the soft fabric wrapped around the brunette’s firm ass.

“You’re so hot, Jean,” came a raspy breath, and Marco pulled him closer, impossibly so, and Jean found out happily that he wasn’t the only one enjoying this way too much. “I want you so bad.” Marco’s talkativeness wasn’t limited only to his daytime activities it seemed, and Jean didn’t mind, oh he couldn’t have minded any less if he tried.

“So bad, huh?” he murmured hoarsely, licking his dry lips. He was very much enjoying the turn of the events. This, this he could live with. This, this he was familiar with. Marco still groping him keenly, he let his own hand slide along the waist of Marco’s boxers and then very ungracefully he dived in them. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to call it off, Marco drunk and all, but when he heard the guy draw in a long, unsteady breath between his teeth as his fingers skipped all the light teasing and wrapped around the brunette’s half-hard cock, he realised it was too late for that. Maybe it had been too late all along, from the second he had carried the guy in his apartment and dropped him in his bed. Marco in his bed… Now that was something he thought he’d never see. He wasn’t complaining though.

Yeah, too late to back down now. And Marco didn’t seem to mind either, his fingers digging deeper into Jean’s skin as the guy toyed with his cock, gently pulled his foreskin back and moved his hand slowly up and down between their bodies, the cock swelling in his grip. Marco was trying to push his hips faster into Jean’s hand, unashamedly groping the blonde and feeling him up, his warm fingers circling Jean’s entrance, carefully pushing in but not hard enough to get in, and Jean was already trying to remember where he had thrown the lube after fucking Eren. His hand sped up a little, leaking precum making it slide easier, and Marco was already _moaning_ , his jaw falling slack like this was the best goddamn thing he’d ever experienced. His fingers pushed in harder, and Jean tensed for a moment before the fingers were gone again.

Shit shit shit.

“Wait wait wait, I need to get the, uh,” Jean croaked, clearing his throat. “The, y’know.” When he stopped and dragged his hand out of Marco’s boxers, the brunette honest-to-god _whined_ , and Jean was more than ready to just straddle him and fuck him until morning, horribly drunk or not.

“And you could, um, brush your teeth or something.”

“I don’t have a toothbrush,” Marco murmured, reluctantly pulling out his own hand, which made Jean a little unhappy.

“You can use mine, I’ll just buy a new one tomorrow.” Jean stumbled out of the bed as soon as all their body parts were untangled, as gracefully as a two-legged dog, and dropped on the floor on his knees, checking under the bed. He knew he had thrown the lube somewhere around here, and as he tried to see something from all the dust bunnies inhabiting the space, Marco wobbled up and was somehow able to make it from across the room to the toilet. Jean realised the guy was probably not to be trusted with his own legs, but when he didn’t hear any thuds or crashes, he shrugged it off.

He got up from the floor and lifted his pillows and sheets, throwing them around and then rummaged through his nightstand. He heard water running in the toilet and hoped to gods Marco wouldn’t throw up again. That would seriously flatten the mood.

He should’ve probably called it off. But as he heard the guy actually starting to brush his teeth, he figured what the hell. Maybe Marco had sobered up enough for this not to be weird, for this not to be Jean taking an advantage of him or some shit. Usually when he had drunk sex, both of the parties were wasted.

About at the same time as Marco was finished and Jean heard him turn off the light in the toilet and sway back to the bed, Jean located the lube stuffed under the mattress. He didn’t even try to imagine how it had gotten there, only pulled it out victoriously, just in time for Marco to grab him from behind, wrapping his arms around his waist. He hummed in Jean’s ear with a breath that smelled like toothpaste now, the hint of alcohol still lingering under it. He leaned against Jean’s back, forcing the guy to take a step forward.

“Hey,” Marco whispered, his other hand sliding up Jean’s smooth chest and the other, well, the other plunging right into his boxers. His hand was moist and it felt slightly cold and it made Jean cringe a little, even though the situation was fucking hot it made his skin shiver. Marco really didn’t try to be modest and Jean still wasn’t complaining. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the strong shoulder of Marco as the brunette’s hand got right down to it, wrapping around Jean’s hard cock and starting to work it. Amazingly, Jean might’ve added, if his head had worked anywhere near coherently. There was already a large, wet stain of precum soaking his boxers and he didn’t care, he didn’t care that he was leaking like an open tap and the way Marco was moving his hand so fucking _well_ , his thumb stopping to rub the head of his cock, pressing into the slit made his knees weak. The guy was pushing and rubbing his own hips against Jean, his now fully erect cock pressing into his ass, and Jean swayed back, leaning against him, against his chest, letting the brunette dry-hump him like a horny dog.

He could’ve let the guy take care of him just like this, his fingers playing with Jean’s nipples, rolling over them and tugging them in a way that bordered on painful, and his mouth sucking the skin of his neck, his teeth tugging on it and surely leaving marks on top of old marks. Jean’s own hands were just holding onto Marco wherever they could reach so he didn’t fall, and he could’ve come just like this, but it would have been such a waste of a really good boner.

“Marco, M-Marco,” he tried to steady his voice as best as he could but failed. Instead he moaned the name into the air, Marco’s teeth sinking into his flesh harder and then he moaned again, his voice high-pitched and needy. _Jesus_ , the guy wasn’t really holding back anything Jean thought as Marco tilted his head a little and sucked Jean’s earlobe into his mouth. The hand tightly wrapped around the base of his cock slid lower, grabbing his balls and then Marco was sucking his neck again.

“If you keep doing that,” Jean half-moaned, half-gasped. “I’m gonna soil my boxers.” Marco twisted his other nipple as if to test this theory, and then pulled back, holding Jean’s skin between his teeth for a second before letting go. Jean gasped.

“As if you haven’t already,” Marco murmured, his lips pressed against Jean’s ear as he sucked Jean’s earlobe again, his voice so dark that it resonated deep in his chest, his chest vibrating against Jean’s back.

“Jesus,” Jean groaned.

“I wanna take you from behind this time,” Marco spoke with a low voice, two of his fingers pressing against the area behind Jean’s balls, and Jean would’ve let him fuck on the fucking rooftops if he had asked. He would’ve let him fuck him in any available and known position and location to man, just as long as he’d do it with the same passion as he was speaking with.

“Okay.” That was the best answer Jean could come up with but it didn’t seem to matter to Marco. He let go of the blonde and spun him around so that they were face to face, and finally they were kissing, and surely enough, the same unknown yet sexy darkness lurking behind Marco’s words was in his kiss and in his touch. He skipped all the gentle making out and instead kissed Jean with a rough force, sucking and biting his lips, pushing his hungry tongue in the awaiting mouth and exploring it like it was the first time it had been there. Jean wasn’t usually the passive, receiving type of a person, but right now all he could do was let Marco fuck his mouth and run his hands over his body, grabbing and squeezing and feeling everything he reached. Soon enough the hands were in his boxers again, both of them memorising the shape and the curve of his ass, and he pulled Jean closer, their cocks pressing against each other through the thin layers of clothing. The feeling left Jean boneless, his own hands hanging around Marco’s neck lazily, the other still holding onto the lube. Their mouths moved against one another so fucking perfectly, their tongues tangling around each other and their little whimpers and whines rolling into one another’s mouths, some of them escaping into the air around them. Marco tasted minty.

It was Marco who broke the kiss, tearing Jean off of him and pushing him on the bed. He didn’t move himself immediately though, just hovered above Jean and watched him with dark, unreadable eyes. And because Jean felt his intense gaze crawling on his itching, aching, awaiting skin, he wanted to give the guy something to really look at. So he shoved his hand in his own boxers and started jerking off, just to see the shift in Marco’s face. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh dripping with lust, and as he arched his back off the bed, twisting his other hand into the wrinkly sheet under him, Marco pushed his legs apart and settled in between them, gripping Jean by the wrist and pulling his hand out and pinning it against the bed. He did the same with the other hand, pinning them both above Jean’s head, and the blonde opened his eyes.

Marco looked like a guy who you didn’t want to fuck with, except literally. He looked a complete stranger yet someone Jean felt he had known all his life, and when he leaned down and caught Jean’s lips in a kiss, Jean pushed up to deepen it. He sucked out every little sound Marco made, swallowing them eagerly, and forced his own, horny noises into Marco’s mouth. He was desperately jerking his hips up, trying to get some kind of touch or friction, but Marco moved back with every movement Jean gave until he finally sat up, pushing off Jean’s legs wrapped around his waist.

“Turn around.” The way Marco spoke made Jean’s body feel like it was on fire, and he was eager to see where this would lead, so he obeyed and got on his hands and knees, sticking his ass up into the air. He felt like a slut and it was arousing and embarrassing at the same time, and he was hoping Marco would just get on with it, stick his dick in him and fuck him brainless.

Marco didn’t waste time, that was a fact, but it didn’t mean he was moving fast enough for Jean. He slid Jean’s boxers off and down to his knees, where he left and forgot them. His warm hands massaged Jean’s hips, and he bent forward, trailing his lips down from Jean’s shoulders to the small of his back. He took his time, trying to taste every inch of Jean with every open-mouthed kiss, making the guy underneath him groan impatiently, wriggling his hips under Marco’s firm grip. The guy gave him a squeeze and then ran his hands over his sides, kissing his way back up to Jean’s neck. Jean let his head fall onto the bed and buried his face into the sheets, pushing his arms straight over his head, his fingers digging frustratedly into the bed.

“You’re so beautiful,” Marco murmured, nibbling Jean’s neck, his fingertips feeling along his ribs to his stomach, to his chest, and to his throat, where they pushed his head back up and Jean tilted his head to the side to try and see the brunette, just in time for Marco’s mouth to cover his, his tongue running over his flushed lips. “I missed you so much.”

Jean wasn’t sure if he believed it or if he even wanted to believe but it didn’t matter, the words made more precum leak from the tip of his length and to the bed.

Marco’s lips still on his, his tongue still tasting him, sucking his lower lip into his hot mouth, he pushed his hips back against marco and rolled them against the guy’s abandoned boner.

“Get on with it,” he mumbled, and Marco pulled back with Jean’s lip between his teeth and let go.

“Will you say please like last time?” Marco murmured, the corners of his lips turning slightly up, and before Jean could form an answer or frown angrily at the guy, a warm hand had cupped his balls, giving them a gentle tug, throwing Jean’s track of thought off balance.

“Please fuck me,” he sighed, and Marco licked his lips quickly, watching Jean’s eyes flutter shut. He was like hot wax under Marco’s touch, whatever the brunette wanted to do, Jean was ready to bend that way. And as Marco straightened up and pushed Jean’s face back into the bed, he obeyed, spreading his legs as wide as the boxers still wrapped around his knees allowed.

“You look so sexy like this.” The hands sliding over his body settled on his ass, grabbing and squeezing it and Jean whimpered into the mattress, swaying his hips a little. Without even lifting his head he picked the lube dropped on the bed and extended it over his shoulder, and Marco leaned forward and took it.

“You’re so impatient,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb over Jean’s entrance teasingly. Jean couldn’t argue with that, so he pushed against Marco’s touch, whimpering a little louder.

“Please,” he whined. “ _Please_.” Marco hummed lightly and popped the lube open, and for a moment both his hands left Jean’s skin as he slicked his fingers and dropped the bottle on the bed.

“I like to hear you beg,” he spoke, and without giving time for Jean to form a complaint, he pushed a finger knuckle-deep into his awaiting ass. He let out a satisfied groan as Jean yelped in surprise, the surprise turning quickly into an approving moan.

“You f-fucking perv,” he stuttered, fisting both his hand into the sheets. “Wouldn’t have guessed, ah—” Marco only hummed in response, pushing his finger in and out with a steady pace, and as he lined another finger alongside the first one and pushed them both inside of Jean, the blonde yelped again.

“Jesus, f—” he breathed, biting his lower lip. “Wh-who’s impatient now?” The fingers stopped and this time Marco sounded a little more like himself.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” He rested his other hand on Jean’s back and rubbed it softly, his fingertips running along his spine. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“N-no, is fine, don’t stop now,” Jean moaned, and Marco didn’t ask again. He pulled the fingers almost completely out and then plunged them back in, curling them against his prostate, and Jean’s moans got caught in his throat. It hurt _so good_ , it felt _so good_. Marco watched Jean’s shoulder blades quivering, his muscles tensing as he muffled his cries against the bed. He was soaking wet and by the time of the third finger he was unable to keep his voice down or his eagerness invisible anymore. Marco kept fingering him, Jean eventually starting to push himself back to meet Marco’s thrusts, and the continuous stream of moans was getting heavier and heavier, a bunch of _oh yeah_ s and _so good_ s thrown into the mix.

“Do you have condoms?” The question dropped Jean back to earth at least for the time being, and his eyes shot open as he tried to furiously remember if he had any. Shit, of course he had to have at least one somewhere?

“Uh, check the, uh, the nightstand.” That was the first, logical place, and the next would be Jean’s wallet and then maybe the toilet cabinet and maybe, _maybe_ the back pockets of his jeans. Marco drew his slippery fingers out of Jean and rummaged through the bedside table quickly before getting back to him.

Jean heard the sound of foil being ripped open, and he breathed shakily. Marco eased his own boxers down enough to get his cock out. He didn’t bother to take the underwear off completely, just rolled the rubber on clumsily and picked the lube up again. Jean held his head down and his face buried, listening to Marco’s heavy breathing. He was dying for the guy to touch him, to kiss him, to hold him, and all those things were a little embarrassing and very out of character for him. He wanted Marco to pound the sense out of him and at the same time he wanted him to hold him close and kiss him and take it slow, just feel the brunette on and inside of him.

“You ready?” Marco’s hands were on his hips again, but they were a little gentler this time. The way he slid his lubed cock between his ass cheeks was not, though, but Jean liked it anyway.

“Yeah,” he replied, not bothering with clever responses this time. Marco caressed his skin, hesitating for a fraction of a second for whatever reason, but then he lined himself with Jean’s entrance, spreading him open with his hands and started pushing in, and Jean held his breath. He would never stop being amazed yet a little horrified how thick Marco was, that was for sure.

When Marco made it past the tight ring, he pushed in all the way until his hips were pressed firmly against Jean’s ass, and the guy arched his back and clawed at the sheets. He could feel every inch of Marco inside of him, he could feel the cock pulsating against his tight walls.

“E-easy, okay?” he moaned, and Marco made an affirmative noise and rubbed Jean’s hipbones reassuringly. He let Jean breathe for a while, swaying his hips a little from side to side, and Jean tried to imagine how the guy looked like right now. He couldn’t find the strength to lift his head and look at Marco over his shoulder, mostly because he was pretty sure the guy was watching him with that same intense stare as he had before, and he couldn’t really deal with it now. Not because it was bad, but because it was so good. Everything about him was so good it drove Jean fucking nuts.

“Okay, go on.” He didn’t need to tell Marco twice as the guy leaned over him and kissed his neck, pulling out a little before pushing back in hastily. He gasped against Jean’s skin, and the blonde shivered, grounding his teeth together.

“You feel so good,” Marco breathed and nuzzled against the nape of Jean’s neck. He made short movements, pulling barely out before pushing back in again, the pace gradually picking up as he got lost in it, got lost into the overwhelming tightness and the hotness of Jean. He rested his other hand next to Jean’s head on the bed, running the other through his hair, entwining his fingers into the blonde strands. He gave them a careful tug and Jean snapped his head back, letting out a throaty moan at the feeling.

“F-fuck,” he groaned as Marco bottomed out, pulling out again and thrusting in with force, making the bed creak a little under their weight. He moaned and the hand in Jean’s hair tightened, and Marco pulled his head back more.

“This fine?” he mouthed against Jean’s neck and the blonde could only respond with unintelligible noises, nodding his head against the grip. He didn’t think he would ever like being the submissive one but god, the slight burn in his scalp mixed with Marco’s cock fucking owning him was overwhelming. He felt Marco’s mouth hot and wet on his skin as he made his way over his neck to his jaw, biting the skin gently. His pace never subsided and the tighter Marco held onto his hair and the harder he fucked him, the brighter the stars in his vision got. The air was filled with the sounds of skin on skin, sighing and moaning, and Jean didn’t at first realise most of the noises were coming from him, his jaw fallen slack and a dribble of drool running down his chin.

Marco’s breathing was coming out in short spurts, sweat starting to form on his forehead. He was quiet apart from the panting, and his arm holding him up had started to quiver. When he stopped for a moment, letting go of Jean’s hair and resting against the blonde’s back, Jean opened his eyes he didn’t realise he had closed, and wiped his chin on the bed.

“You okay?” he whispered, and Marco nodded against him. Jean was about to lift his hand and reach it over to touch the brunette, but before he could do that, the guy pushed himself up completely. He grabbed Jean’s sides and without a warning, he slid almost completely out and jammed back in with one, fluid movement. Jean cried out, the gasp turning into a long, wailing moan as Marco did it again and again and again and Jean couldn’t do anything else than hope to gods he wouldn’t pass out, his skin, his mind, his body and everything about him fucking overstimulated and oversensitive, Marco’s cock now stabbing right into his prostate, making his thighs tremble and his body convulse in the verge of a forthcoming orgasm.

The last straw was when Marco reached out and grabbed his hair familiarly, pulling his head back and he let out a strained moan before he was coming, fireworks going off in his mind and his hot cum shooting all over his bed and his stomach. Marco was still pounding onto him, his movements becoming erratic and desperate, his fingers sunken onto Jean’s skin and his hand so tight in his hair that Jean thought his neck might snap backwards, his breath getting stuck on his tightening throat.

Then with a bitten back, sharp gasp Marco collapsed on top of him, knocking Jean’s legs from under him and he stuttered Jean’s name, pushing in him one last time, his cock throbbing inside Jean before he went limp, spreading over Jean with a deep sigh.

 

When Jean was sure he had washed off all the dried jizz, he made it out of the hot shower and dried himself quickly, wrapping a towel around his waist. Marco had fallen asleep, no surprise there, and the used condom was floating in the puke can. Jean made a face at it and pushed it under the bed completely, careful not to knock it over. He threw the towel on the almost entirely dried up mess on the bed and crawled under the blankets.

This time Marco didn’t shuffle closer or wrap his arm around Jean, his back to the blonde, instead he just twitched a little in his sleep and sighing quietly, he sank deeper into the universe in his mind. So Jean snuggled against Marco’s back and drew the blankets tighter over them, falling asleep with his nose buried in Marco’s neck.

 

By the time Marco woke up to his very first hangover ever, Jean had been awake for two hours. He’d spent most of the time staring at the sleeping Marco, counting his never-ending freckles and getting lost in the airy thoughts in his head. He learned Marco was a wide sleeper when he was drunk, his limbs spread across the bed, Jean curled up in the space between them. He didn’t mind, he absorbed the heat radiating from Marco’s body and breathed easily, shared the air with the freckled guy smelling faintly of last night and sleep.

Jean felt sorry for the guy before he had even gotten his eyes properly open. He knew exactly how the light must’ve felt like needles in his bloodshot eyes, the dusty air making them dry up in his skull. First it was only the other eye, followed reluctantly by the other, and then Marco whimpered pathetically and drew the blanket over his head.

“Hungover?” Jean couldn’t hide the hint of amusement in his voice, and it made Marco let out a muffled groan, his whole body curling into a ball under the blanket. “Yeah, I know. Coffee?” Another groan, a little whinier this time. Apparently the thought of instant coffee wasn’t very inviting to the poor guy.

Jean chuckled to himself as he got out of the bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Commando it was, then, and Jean decided he was _definitely_ going to do some laundry one of these days. Tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow. He opened his curtains first time in a pathetically long time, the sunlight setting fire to the dust dancing in his air. Maybe he would just spend the last of his money on a cleaner, at least he could starve to death in a clean place then.

As he dawdled to the kitchen and set to making the worst coffee in the history of mankind that he would later just throw out without even tasting it, Marco wrapped himself tighter into the blanket, trying to sink through the bed to the cold floor and then through the floor to the centre of the Earth where he could slowly melt to death. Even that would have been less painful. He wasn’t nearly enough conscious yet to ask questions nor did he want to be. If anything, he wanted to remain unconscious for as long as this would pass. Whatever sins he had committed in his previous life, this, this was definitely too harsh of a punishment. The taste in his mouth was viler than a smell of a dead, rotting body out in a heat, buzzing with a thousand flies. He listened at Jean whistling lightly in the kitchen and then the whistling came closer with a set of footsteps and then it stopped.

“Marco?” the voice came from above him, interrupting his attempts of trying to melt into the darkness under the blanket. He flinched as Jean grabbed the blanket and tried to pull it off of him, and then he protested with a loud cry.

“No!” he tightened his grip and Jean let go with a chuckle.

“Poor baby, that bad, huh?” Marco wouldn’t have recognised sarcasm in his state even if it sat on his face and clawed his eyes out, but even then he didn’t say anything. He was afraid the pain jabbing in his head would spread and make a vein pop in his brain.

“If you feel like throwing up, please don’t do it in the bed.” Marco let out a sound more suitable for an angry bear waking up from hibernation, and Jean poked the huge lump that was Marco just to hear him whine again. It was sort of amusing.

“D’you need something? Like water? Juice? Painkillers?” Jean asked, and the lump stayed quiet for a while. Then slowly, ever so slowly the lump unravelled itself and Marco peeked from under the quilt, his eyes red and his hair hanging on his face.

“Well… Do you have chocolate milk?” Chocolate milk. Freaking chocolate milk of all things. Jean should’ve seen it coming.

“No, but how about a glass of lukewarm tap water?” he snorted. Marco disappeared under the blanket again with a silent whimper.

“Oh, no. I’m fine.” Jesus.

“If I get you chocolate milk will you stop hiding under there?” And then he lifted the edge of the quilt enough to give Jean a peek again, looking positively frightened yet a little hopeful.

“Maybe,” he said with a thin voice.

“Fine. I’ll get you chocolate milk, but only because I feel partly responsible for your hangover.”

“Why?”

“Eh. I should’ve known Christa would do something like this,” Jean shrugged. “She might not look like it but she drinks more than I do. Should’ve warned you.”

“But she didn’t make me drink,” Marco mumbled and before Jean saw the red quickly saturating his otherwise pale face, he’d disappeared under the blanket again.

“What’s that?” Jean poked him, knitting his eyebrows together and Marco whimpered.

“Nothing,” came the faint response.

“You better get ready to come outta there ‘cause I’m gonna go and get that chocolate milk for you now.”

“You really don’t have to…” Marco mumbled yet not too loudly since the thought of _chocolate milk_ was really damn tempting in his mind now. Anything sweet would’ve done, though, he was craving for sugar even though his stomach felt like a huge ball of soreness and tenderness inside of him.

“Yeah, I know,” Jean muttered, more to himself than to Marco, and Marco listened to him pacing around the apartment, listened to the soft tinkle of his keys as he shoved them in his pocket. “Just remember, if you feel like puking, don’t do it in the fucking bed or you’re buying me a new one.” And then he was at the door, the door letting out a soft creak as it opened and then closed behind Jean.

 

“One bottle of sugar-infused chocolate milk, just like you wanted.” Something fell on Marco, shaking him out of his coma-like sleep. It rolled down the blanket to the bed, and Marco fumbled out of his nest feverishly and tossed the blanket around until he found the ice-cold brown bottle. His eyes lit up like a lighthouse at the sea and he looked up to Jean who had been following the ridiculous show amusedly. It was like watching a cat playing with its prey before it killed it and ate it.

“Thank you.” Marco’s voice was quiet and he looked like a kid on a Christmas morning as he unscrewed the cork and sniffed the contents, his eyes falling shut with a pleasant shudder.

“Enjoy your sugar rush,” Jean snorted. He took a sip of his own takeaway coffee and watched Marco down a big gulp, his whole being shivering as he wiped his mouth. “I also brought some soup in case you, I dunno, feel like you could stomach it.” Jean drummed his fingers against the paper cup but stopped when Marco smiled at him, his shaking hands holding the bottle tightly.

“Thanks, I feel better already.”

“Really? Because you don’t look like it.” He grinned and Marco whimpered, his brave act disappearing into the thin air.

“My head feels like exploding,” he whispered, and Jean tried to contain his amusement. He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his nightstand.

“You might wanna take up my offer on the painkillers now.” He pulled a pack of Paramol out and threw it to Marco, who winced and shook his head.

“I’m allergic to paracetamol.” He screwed the chocolate milk shut and fell on the bed on his side. “Thanks though,” he murmured softly.

“Oh. That sucks,” Jean hummed. He sipped his coffee, watching Marco close his eyes and move around a little until he found a relatively comfortable position and stuck with it. It was odd, someone in his bed like this, someone in his _apartment_ like this, and against all odds it didn’t bother him. He reached his hand idly and brushed some hair off Marco’s face, running his fingers through the strands. His hair felt really nice, it slid through his fingers easily and felt soft on his fingertips. Marco sighed contently and dragged himself closer to Jean until he was pressed against the guy, wrapped around him like a snake. He nudged Jean’s side, urging him to continue and the blonde ran his hand through the dark hair again. Marco purred, curling tighter into a ball and nuzzled his face against Jean’s thigh.

“Aching for affection much?” Jean chuckled, but he couldn’t deny the way his heart made an extra hop when Marco purred again.

“Can you tell me something?” he mouthed against Jean’s thigh.

“What d’you want me to tell you?”

“I don’t know. Anything.” Marco hummed. “A story.”

“I’m not a storyteller really.” Jean scratched the back of the brunette’s head softly and he shuddered.

“Just talk something, I don’t mind.” His voice was quiet and soft and Jean couldn’t say no, even though the only thing he could think about now was his brother, since he had been the one out of their family with a wild imagination. He had created worlds and universes in a blink of an eye, he had given life to the long dead and gone with his words. He had told so many stories but Jean had forgotten them all. He had forgotten so much.

“D’you have any siblings, Marco?”

“I have a sister,” Marco murmured.

“I have a, I had a brother.” Marco’s eyes opened and he tilted his head to look up at Jean who kept idly stroking his dark hair. “His name was John.” Marco’s hair was so, so soft. He didn’t look at Marco, just stared right through him, wondering if the guy was one of those people that had a dozen of different products for his hair, everything and anything ranging from special shampoos and conditioners to hair oils and whatnots.

“He told a lot of stories when we were kids.”

“What kind of stories?”

“I don’t remember. They changed when he got older. When we got older.” Marco wiggled his hand free from under the sheets it was tangled in and slid it up Jean’s back. The blonde concentrated on a knot he’d found on the dark hair under his fingers, his other hand holding onto the now empty takeaway cup.

“They stopped completely when we turned fourteen.” He got the knot sorted, ran his hand over it, smoothing the wild strands. “He died when we were fifteen.” Marco’s hand stopped for a moment before it ran down Jean’s back again. He let it rest on the small of his back, drawing gentle circles against it.

“I remember this one story he used to tell all the damn time, it wasn’t his own though. The story about the hare and the tortoise.” He snorted. “I hated the goddamn story.” Marco chuckled.

“John wanted to be cremated but our parents, the hard-ass saint-like Catholics couldn’t even discuss it even though it was John’s fucking will.” Marco’s fingers massaged the blonde’s skin through the loose t-shirt he was wearing. “I mean it’s not like he was there to argue them but y’know, he told me, that should’ve been enough for them. Now he rots under the ground forever like a fucking dog.” Marco was quiet. Jean’s hand had stopped, the fingers entwined in his hair, his head turned to another direction now, away from Marco. The brunette couldn’t see his face properly, so he focused on rubbing his back soothingly, the muscles already a little tense under his touch.

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Mina.”

“Mina and Marco. Nice. Older or younger sister?”

“Younger.”

“Huh. Does she know you’re gay?” Jean’s hand wasn’t still moving. Marco let his own hand drop on the bed too.

“I guess. We don’t really talk about it.”

“Why not?” Marco shrugged, drawing his arm back under the blanket.

“I don’t know. We just don’t.”

“Does your head still hurt?” Jean’s thumb rubbed his scalp and then ran over his ear, making Marco shudder lightly.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

“Tell me about your sister.”

“Well… She’s a medical student, two years younger than me and she has a boyfriend of seven years. They live together. She likes dancing.”

“A lawyer _and_ a doctor in the same family?” Jean clicked his tongue. “Not bad.” Marco let out a thin hum. He didn’t know what to say, he couldn’t come up with a single thought that didn’t involve asking things he was pretty much sure Jean wouldn’t want to answer. He couldn’t think of anything interesting to say about, well, anything and he worried that if he didn’t say something soon, Jean would bring up the whole gay thing again. It made Marco feel ashamed, ashamed he couldn’t be like Jean, not give a damn about everyone’s opinion as much as he did. Why, of all things, did Jean have to bring up his sexuality all the time? It was like for some reason that was the only thing that Jean defined him by, by how much he didn’t want to talk about it to people. Like he was just _gay_ , period, and not all the other things he did and was. Either that or a lawyer, which, he supposed, was at least better.

Jean was silent; either too buried in his thoughts or just as clueless of what to say next as Marco, and it gave the brunette a little time to breathe. He had no idea what was going on in Jean’s mind since he seemed to be so good at hopping from subject to another so fast Marco didn’t even see any connection between them. It made him nervous and quite frankly a little uncomfortable. Jean was like a loaded gun with only one bullet; any of the empty clicks of the safety catch could be the last thing you ever heard. But he was curious and Jean had brought the subject up by himself, so…

“How did your brother die?” Marco wasn’t sure if he’d hear a click or a bang but he took the risk and listened to the noisy humming in his ears as he waited for Jean to react.

“He killed ‘imself.” He said it easily, softly, without much emotion and it took Marco for a while to let it sink in. It was the saddest thing he had ever heard Jean say and before he knew it, he’d pushed himself up, his brain protesting the sudden movement by setting out a wave of nausea through his body. He ignored it. He didn’t know what else to do, though, when they were in pain or sad as kids with Mina, their parents relied on touching and listening rather than talking. So he wrapped his arms around Jean’s waist from behind and held him, held him even if Jean didn’t really react to it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he murmured softly, resting his head against Jean’s.

“Not really. I dunno.” He sounded calm, Marco noted, and he supposed that was good.

“If you want to, I’ll listen.” Jean licked his lips before he started speaking.

“Catholics believe suicide is a sin and our parents were so ashamed—can you imagine it, can you imagine, your son dies and you’re _ashamed_ , you’re ashamed because…” A moment of hesitation. “Because you believe that people will _judge_ you, that’s, that’s all they cared about. You gotta keep smiling even if you’re fucking dying. Keep up the appearances, see.” Marco responded with a quiet hum. Jean rested his hands in his lap but he didn’t touch Marco, he didn’t do anything to show Marco he had noticed the guy was there, around him, on him, against him.

“I fucking hate ‘em. Sometimes I forget and then I remember and I get so fucking mad like you wouldn’t believe.” Jean took a deep breath. “Y’know what they told me the last time I saw them? ‘It shoulda been you’. It shoulda been me and not John.” He let the cup drop on the floor from his hand.

“It was all my fault anyway, like somehow, I dunno, somehow it was my fault.” He paused, Marco’s breath feeling warm, comforting against his neck. “I know it shoulda been me.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Marco whispered. “You can’t save people if they don’t want to be saved.” That was the first thing Marco said that Jean really noticed, but he wiped it off his mind pretty quickly.

“I just wanted to understand him. One of the reasons I got into psychology was because… Because I thought if I could,” he cleared his throat. “If I could just find an explanation, a reason to everything, it’d make everything better.” The dry laugh that escaped his lips made Marco jump.

“But the further I got the more I forgot. Maybe that’s where I was naïve, Marco.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Says you. Whatever, it doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing left of him now.”

“You still have your memories,” Marco tried, but Jean sneered.

“I’d rather forget everything than keep hanging onto some broken memories. Sometimes I doubt if he ever really existed.” Jean felt Marco’s heartbeat against his back. Steadily, like a drum, it beat against the ribcage keeping it locked tightly in Marco’s chest. The brunette was now leaning onto him, his arms so tight around him, so tight like he was afraid of letting go. Maybe not afraid for his own sake but for Jean’s, or maybe for them both.

“I could’ve saved him but I didn’t.”

“Don’t say that, Jean. Don’t blame yourself for someone else’s actions.”

“He wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t, he was never suicidal.” Marco’s fingers dug desperately into Jean’s flesh through his shirt. “We were never apart for longer than two weeks until the summer we turned fifteen. He went away for two months, to this stupid bible camp or whatever. Not like he was religious but all his friends went there so y’know.”

“You didn’t go?”

“Nah. I think my parents hated me for it because I was in the way all summer, but they hated me for everything else already anyway so whatever. I didn’t really have my own friends back then and I didn’t wanna… I didn’t wanna be a bother to John.” He shrugged awkwardly, Marco moving with the motion. “We wrote to each other, he describing what the camp and the kids was like and me complaining about our parents and my shitty, boring life.”

“Write? Like letters?”

“Yeah, it was stupid and childish but he liked writing so I went along.”

“It sounds nice.”

“Three weeks before he came back he stopped writing.” Jean licked his lips. “I just assumed he got sick of my whining or some shit. Whatever, I spent my days jacking off and being bored outta my mind so I wouldn’t have had anything to tell ‘im anyway.” Marco trembled with cold. He pressed his bare torso tighter against Jean’s back, trying to drink all the heat from Jean he could. The blonde shifted a little but remained in his place.

“And then he came back and he’d cut his hair short, he had this ridiculous buzz-cut that made him look like a cancer patient.” Jean smiled at the thought but Marco didn’t see it. “I made fun of it but he didn’t care. Y’know, it’d be really dramatic if I told you now he had cancer but he didn’t and he wasn’t sick but he changed. He stopped talking and I don’t even remember what the last thing he said to me was.”

“I’m sorry.” It was a soft whimper and Jean didn’t hear it. Marco was squeezing him now so hard it hurt and made his fingers turn white, the fingers pressing into his ribs, but Jean didn’t say anything. Maybe Marco was doing it for his own sake, he figured, maybe Marco was more afraid than he was.

“I knew him, I knew John. Something happened and I never asked what.” He swallowed. “I was too absorbed in my own fucking non-existential problems that I never asked him. Fucking asshole.” Marco’s mouth felt dry and his voice had disappeared somewhere. He was shivering but it wasn’t because he was cold, not anymore. He had realised no matter how hard or closely he held Jean, he couldn’t really do anything. He couldn’t make anything better, he couldn’t even make Jean touch him, no matter how much he silently begged for it. He hoped desperately for the guy to reach out to him. He felt so useless. He couldn’t shake the sadness out of Jean, and it scared him how tightly it was sitting on Jean’s shoulders. But it had been there so long Jean didn’t see it as sadness anymore, it was an old friend that kept him company even when he didn’t want it, it was something that tagged along and was there whenever Jean opened his eyes. He had gotten used to it. He didn’t hate it, he didn’t feel threatened by it.

“D’you think he’s in hell now?” Jean asked. His voice was, even now, calm, so calm.

“No, no, of course not,” Marco quickly replied, his voice shaking and shattering on the tip of his tongue, and his words came out clumsily, tangled up in one another. What else was he supposed to say? Jean fell silent with a sigh, and he stayed like that for a long while.

They could’ve sat there for much longer if it hadn’t been for something as mundane as a cell phone dragging them out of their bubble. It was Marco’s and it took him far too long to recognise the tone, but when he did, he muttered his apologies to Jean as he let go of him and stumbled past him to the floor, naked as a new-born baby. The sound was coming from a pile of clothes, and he threw the clothes around until he got to the bottom, fishing the phone out of the pocket of his pants.

“Hey, what’s up?” Marco answered the call and peeked over his shoulder at Jean, making a sheepish face, but the blonde gave him a small smile. And as Marco walked to the bathroom, Jean took a moment to admire the freckles on his ass and appreciate the way Marco’s hips swung as he walked. And when the door closed behind Marco and all he could hear anymore was low mumbling, he crawled in the bed and curled into a ball.

_What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_

It was suddenly cold without Marco there. It was empty, lonely, and suddenly it felt like the guy was a million miles away and never coming back. Every word he had said was now coming back with thunderous regrets. He had said too much, he had driven Marco away, he had said _too much_ and he shouldn’t have, what the fuck was he doing?

What the fuck was he doing? Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?

He was sure Marco wouldn’t come back. He was sure he would leave like the rest of them now that he had something to use against Jean. He’d walk out like the rest of them.

He bit his knuckles, pulling the skin between his teeth, concentrating his trembling energy on the feeling.

Who was he on the phone with? His mind spat lies on him, spat ugly images and lies, lies, lies.

Maybe it was the Armin guy. The stupid, little blonde with an androgynous face, Jean loathed him with every fibre in his body. He probably didn’t have issues like Jean, he probably didn’t smoke like a fucking chimney and drink like Jean did. He probably didn’t have ugly scars on his body like Jean did, he probably didn’t let people degrade him. He was probably as goddamn perfect as Marco was, studying to be something that mattered, with a healthy relationship to his parents and a lovely personality. Just the perfect guy for someone like Marco.

He sounded ridiculous even to himself, he knew it was ridiculous, but he was knee deep in the shit his mind was spewing to him now, there was no turning back. Everything was crumbling around him, him; the pathetic loser that only interested people if he agreed to fuck them. Every small thing swelled into something big, something suffocating, something that made the world turn from grey to pitch black, swallowing every source of light there was. Jean was in complete darkness now.

He bit harder.

Everyone lets you down eventually, wasn’t that how it went? And he believed it, he believed the mantra he had been repeating to himself since day one.

Marco didn’t come out of the toilet for a long time. Every minute that ticked by and disappeared, gone, lost forever, made Jean feel more nauseous. He sunk to the level where there was nothing else but regrets, he wished he’d never met Marco, he wished he’d never let the asshole ruin his life like this, throw his mind off balance like this.

If Jean had known the chain of events that would be set in motion the moment his phone had rang and he had been asked to give a birthday lap dance, would he ever had gone through with all this?

No. No he would have not. That was the last thing, lie or not, he told himself before Marco finally opened the door and walked softly across the apartment. He was quiet and Jean had his back to him and he didn’t dare to move, and for a split second the time stopped and the clocks stopped moving and everything quietened down, everything stopped and Jean couldn’t breathe and then Marco was there, lowering himself on the bed, the bed shifting under his weight and Jean started breathing, the clocks took off and it had been about five seconds but those seconds felt like an eternity.

“Who was it?” Jean asked with a dry voice. Marco sat on the edge but he didn’t say anything. Jean took a risk and turned around, but Marco wasn’t looking at him. He was quiet, and during the moments he’d been gone, he had gotten his boxers on. What a shame.

“Marco?” And he still didn’t turn around. Jean pushed himself up. Marco was holding the phone and his hands were shaking.

“Marco.” It wasn’t a question, and Jean felt his guts sinking, dropping to his knees, dragging his heart along.

“It was Mina.” Even his voice shook as he managed to breathe the words out. “Sh-she’d talked with mom.”

“Yeah? So?” Marco’s hands were still shaking. The gaze he finally gave to Jean was wide-eyed and terrified.

“She—she…”

“What? What is it?”

“Jean…”

“ _What_? What’s wrong?”

“She _knows_.” His eyes blown wide, his face pale like he’d just seen a ghost. It shouldn’t have been funny, but Jean didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Come on Marco, you’re freaking out, calm down.” Marco shook his head furiously, squeezing his eyes shut.

“No no no, you don’t, you don’t…”

“What? _What_?”

“She, she, she, I don’t know how, I don’t…” Marco gaped his mouth, trying to spit the words right out, but they got stuck in his throat, they made his stomach convulse and he saw Jean’s eyes widening, saw the look of horror he gave him before he bent forward and threw up on the floor. Jean cried out a mass of curse words but Marco didn’t have the strength to even apologise. He breathed in through his mouth and then he threw up again, this time a string of words.

“She knows I’m gay.”

Jean was sure he’d misheard. He was occupied trying to calm down his own stomach, trying not to vomit the coffee he’d just drunk. Surely he head misheard, Marco’s head hanging between his knees and his voice a mere mumble, there was no way he had said what Jean thought he just did.

“What.” He kept his hand over his mouth and nose, taking short breaths and fighting back a gag.

“She knows I’m gay,” Marco said monotonously, forcing himself back up, his shoulders hunched as if they were holding an enormous weight. “I have no idea, I have, I don’t know _how_ but…”

“I mean, are you sure? Maybe it’s a misunderstanding or...”

“How do you…” Marco shook his head, dragging his hands over his face to his hair where he ran them along his scalp, tugging the strands. “How would she misunderstand something like that?”

“I dunno. Why doncha call your mom and ask? And tell her it’s all lies and—”

“I can’t lie to my mom, I’m not good at things like that.”

“Just tell her ‘no, mom, I’m not—’”

“Can you stop doing that for one minute please?”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like it would be that easy.”

“Come on, it’s no big deal. We’ll have Christa call her or—”

“Please stop.” The grave tone of Marco’s voice cut Jean short. “Please just… I’m not like you.”

“I know that,” Jean replied and rolled his eyes. “Thank god for that, amirite?”

“I can’t look my mom in the eye and lie to her, I don’t do that. I’ve never done that.”

“You lie to her all the time, or maybe Christa’s really your future wife then.” The weight on Marco’s shoulders didn’t get any lighter as he shook his head to Jean.

“It’s different. It’s… It’s different,” he said quietly. Jean held back a long sigh. The fucking guy.

“Jesus, man, stop being so—”

“Being so _what_? Pathetic maybe?” Marco snapped. He didn’t mean to and he regretted it immediately, a veil of shame falling on his features. Jean didn’t even flinch, he just blinked.

“Calm down, we’ll figure it out.”

“‘We’? You have nothing to do with this, you don’t…”

“I’m just trying to help you out here.”

“But you’re _not_! You’re not helping, at all.” Marco covered his face and groaned loudly. “You’re making it sound like it’s the easiest thing in the world but it’s _not_.” Jean huffed.

“Fine, whatever.” He licked his dry lips. “But have you ever considered that maybe you’re just doing this unnecessary hard for yourself?”

“I know, I _know_ I am. And I’m sorry, I’m, I’m sorry I’m so pathetic and stupid and—”

“Self-pitying doesn’t really suit you Marco,” Jean noted, and the guy snorted in response.

“Shut up, Jean,” he murmured, but there was a hint of smile in his voice, somewhere under the layers of mortification and despair.

“Maybe she doesn’t know, maybe it’s your sister who misunderstood something.” Maybe Marco didn’t believe it but when he looked at Jean with honest to fucking god tears in his eyes and mustered up a smile that made him look miserable like a puppy caught in a rain, Jean wanted to cry. Maybe Marco really wanted to believe it, grab the first plausible explanation and hang on to it with his dear life.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He nodded and wiped the corner of his eye. “Maybe you’re right.” And Jean, the master of comfort, extended his hand and placed it softly on Marco’s shoulder.

“Yeah, so… Don’t cry, okay?”

“I’m sorry I threw up on your floor,” Marco whispered, swallowing thickly.

“It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa if something's wrong there tell me I'll fix it, I'LL FIX IT I PROMISE
> 
> I feel like I'm getting better at writing smut. Or maybe I'm hallucinating from lack of sleep. Have you noticed how all writers and artists in this fandom seem to never sleep? Yeah. It's because I love you too much and I already felt bad because it took a month aND A FREAKING DAY, I set a deadline of one month for myself and I goof'd it up.
> 
> Everything's a mess but shhhh. Just go to my [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com) and look at pictures of naked anime guys.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And time will eventually knock on my door  
> And tell me I'm not needed around anymore  
> But he'll hold me so close at the end of the day  
> When I'm quiet I can nearly hear him say
> 
> _Smile, the worst is yet to come_
> 
> (Mikky Ekko - Smile)

Jean’s idea of cleaning up was to throw a mountain of paper towels on the mess and forget the whole thing. Before falling asleep again, Marco swore he would take care of it, to which Jean responded with a grunt. As long as he didn’t see or smell it, it didn’t exist. After he fought Marco’s attempts to get dressed and go home and forced the guy to sleep some more, something finally snapped in his brain and he gathered every piece of dirty clothing he could fit in the biggest bag he found in his apartment, and set his foot outside and made it to the closest laundromat.

See, he wasn’t a completely useless loser. He could do things if he set his mind to it. Like now, now that he was stuffing all his clothes in two washing machines and praying the doors would close, he wasn’t a complete idler. He stuck the coins he found from the bottom of his pockets in the machine and poured in a reasonable amount of detergent. Enough to wash probably three loads, but hey, the clothes _were_ disgustingly dirty.

The guy sitting in the corner reading a book didn’t notice Jean until the blonde was standing in front of him, staring down at him. He didn’t raise his gaze, though, just kept his eyes strictly on the book.

“Hi Jean,” Eren said. He licked the tip of his finger and turned a page.

“Don’t tell me this is the only goddamn laundromat in this god forsaken city.”

“No, but my regular place got shut down due to a cockroach infestation, and this was the closest.” Then he lifted his gaze, squinting at Jean. “Besides, since when do _you_ do laundry?”

“Shut up. Why’d you have to pick this day of all days?” Jean groaned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I always do my laundry on Sundays.”

“Every Sunday?”

“Not everyone likes to wear clothes for three months straight like you, Jean.” Eren closed the book, keeping his finger between the pages. “Besides, I picked the habit from my dad. I hear his voice nagging at me whenever I try to slip from the routines.” Jean rolled his eyes, mumbled something under his breath and sat a few seats away from Eren on the plastic, most uncomfortable chair found from the universe. It would be a miracle if it didn’t give in under his weight, the metallic legs wobbly enough as it was. The guy opened his book and continued reading. Jean stared at the clothes turning around in the machines, wondering if people stole a lot of the unattended laundry.

“You afraid someone might steal your undies if you don’t sit here guarding them?” he asked Eren, and the guy snorted.

“I could ask you the same thing.” It was annoying how Eren wouldn’t even look up from his book when he talked to Jean.

“Don’t have anything better to do,” Jean shrugged.

“Sure. So was it the same guy again?” Eren sounded indifferent, hiding the ticking curiosity under a lazy yawn.

“Huh?”

“Play dumb all you want, but you do own a mirror right?” Eren still didn’t even bother raising his gaze from the book, but he could see from the corner of his eye how Jean sunk a little deeper in the seat and tugged the collar of his leather jacket a little higher. “You look like a horny teenager. Suits you.” And then he finally turned his head to Jean to flash a gloating grin before he returned to the book.

“Piss off,” Jean grunted. “Whatcha reading anyway?” Eren lifted the book briefly and Jean tilted his head to the side to read the title.

“American Gods. Any good?”

“Yeah, not bad.”

“Cool.” The conversation dried out, Eren turning pages idly and Jean staring at the toes of his worn-out shoes. He could see the sole gaping from the side, all ready to swallow a bucket of water and soak his sock in case he accidentally stepped on a puddle. The door of the place opened and an older woman walked in with a laundry basket, her steps squeaky on the dirty linoleum floor. Both Jean and Eren raised their gazes to look at the stranger, but they both lost interest pretty quickly, Eren sinking into his fictional world and Jean entertaining himself with counting the squares on the floor. He listened the woman breathe heavily while stuffing her laundry in a machine, and Eren humming to himself. Jean crossed his arms across his chest and tried to ignore the noises coming from the guy.

“God that’s annoying, shut _up_ ,” he finally snapped. Eren went silent with a deep sigh but didn’t bother to reply. The lady shot them both a long glance from the other side of the place. Jean kept his mouth shut for another five minutes until he found something that bugged him, and groaned at Eren, shooting dirty looks at him. He kept it up for at least a good thirty seconds before Eren got frustrated and slammed his book shut.

“What is your problem?” he huffed, and the lady turned to look at them yet again, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Nothing,” Jean replied, examining a spot on his sweatpants. He scratched it with a fingertip, the dirt getting under his nail. He heard Eren cursing colourfully under his breath as he opened the book once again. He’d been reading the same page over and over again but he wasn’t giving Jean the satisfaction of knowing that; the satisfaction of knowing how much he was able to disturb him. Instead he read it through once again, forgetting immediately what he had read as he heard Jean whistling quietly. He was this close to going berserk at the blonde’s attempts to annoy him, but he ground his teeth together harder, taking a deep breath through his nose. And when Jean got bored and pulled out his phone and started browsing it, Eren finally moved to the next page.

He managed to read about ten pages before his machine announced happily that his laundry was done. Jean was still playing with his phone, his face fallen into a concentrative frown, and his left leg was bouncing restlessly. Eren left the book on his seat as he walked to the washing machine and started unloading it, dropping everything into the bag on his feet.

“Don’t tell me,” Jean chuckled, “you wash your darks and whites _separately_?”

“Only a savage would not.”

“Another pedantic little habit picked up from your daddy?”

“It’s not pedantic,” Eren stated as he swung the bag over his shoulder, “it’s common sense.” Jean shook his head, giving the guy a condescending eye-roll. Eren ignored it, though, and picked the book from the seat, placing it on top of the laundry on his bag.

“You’re not gonna use the dryer?” Jean asked.

“Naw, I like the fresh smell when I dry them in my apartment.” Eren dug his pocket until he found a cigarette, which he placed behind his ear.

“Hey, throw me one? I realised I’m all outta.” Eren huffed.

“Go buy your own, you bum,” he responded, but dug out another and extended it to the guy.

“I thought you quit anyway.”

“Well I started again,” Eren said, scratching the back of his head. “I remembered how good it looks on me.” Jean laughed, shaking his head.

“Not with your face.”

“ _Ha_. You’re one to talk,” Eren snorted, “at least I can grow some facial hair, you fucking baby face.” Jean shrugged, toying with the cigarette between his fingers. He sat up a little straighter and followed Eren’s example, putting the cig behind his ear so he wouldn’t accidentally break it.

“Anyway, I gotta go,” Eren spoke, pulling the bag a little tighter over his shoulder. “Try not to miss me.” He walked in front of the blonde who pulled on his best “I don’t give two shits” face. The reply he was ready to shoot back got lost as Eren dipped forward and kissed him, not long enough for Jean to respond to it in anyway, but long enough that he felt it and knew the lady sitting a little further away surely got a proper glance. It was a simple, no-tongue kiss, and Eren’s lips were softer than usually, and Jean almost, _almost_ chased after them when Eren pulled away and straightened up.

“Asshole,” the guy murmured with a self-satisfied grin. Jean couldn’t spit out a proper response, so instead he just grunted and stared at his shoes as Eren walked out of the place. Maybe took a quick look after him.

 

The laundry weighed so much more when still wet than it had when it had been dry, and Jean cursed to himself the whole walk back to his apartment. Instead of a cigarette that was hanging between his lips now, he should’ve asked for some change for the fucking dryers. He made it all the way to his apartment without breaking his back, though, and inside he dropped the bag on the floor with a loud sigh. He stretched his back, a few joints cracking deliciously.

“Honey, I’m home,” he called, throwing his jacket on the floor, and Marco peeked at him from the bed. His face melted into a smile.

“Hey,” he murmured, stifling a yawn.

“What’s up?” Jean asked lightly, walking to the bed and sitting on the edge. This was definitely becoming a habit for them, him on the side of the bed and Marco tangled up in his sheets (that he should have also washed, damn).

“Nothing much. Did you just call me honey?” Marco chuckled, sitting up stiffly.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Jean shrugged. “Y’know, they always do that in sitcoms.”

“Oh, you like those?”

“No, I hate them,” Jean wrinkled his nose, drawing out a hoarse laughter out of Marco.

“You’re crazy,” he giggled. “I can never tell what you’re going to say next.” Jean rolled his eyes but cracked the brunette a smile. He eyed the ridiculous cowlick on the back of Marco’s head, resisting the urge to try and smooth it out.

“You been awake for long?” he asked, and Marco shook his head.

“Half an hour or so.”

“Feel any less hangover-y?”

“A little, but I think my blood-sugar’s low because I feel pretty faint.”

“I got the soup in the fridge if you’re hungry or, y’know, something.” Jean shrugged hastily, tearing his eyes off from Marco’s.

“I’d love that,” Marco smiled. “But do you mind if I use your shower first? I feel kind of sweaty and gross.” He made a face and Jean grinned.

“Go right ahead, man, I’ll get ya a towel.”

 

It was like a scene from a romantic comedy, Jean heating the miserable soup in a pot on the stove and Marco humming as he made it out of the shower, the towel lazily draped on his hips. Jean tried so hard to keep his eyes on the soup but he had to take a little peek, he had to see how Marco’s hair would look like when wet and how well could he see his bulge through the towel. The answers were unfairly sexy and extremely well. He wasn’t blushing, the steam rising from the pot was just making his face hot. Was it supposed to steam like that, though?

“Oh, it smells good.” Suddenly Marco was by his side, running his hand through his wet hair, the strands a little too wild on his head for his (or Jean’s) own good. Jean made a dismissive noise, stirring the soup a little. “You could’ve put it in the microwave, it would’ve been faster.”

“I don’t own one,” Jean mumbled, ignoring the way Marco was leaning closer for a better look at the bubbling soup. He reached for Jean’s hand holding the spoon and holding it, he stirred it a little. He smelled fresh and shampoo-ish and his hand was moist but warm.

“I think it’s ready,” Marco spoke, letting go of his hand.

“How can you tell?” Jean mumbled, moving to side when Marco turned the stove off.

“Well, for one, it’s bubbling, it’s going to burn if you keep it on too hot for too long.”

“This is why I don’t cook,” Jean snorted, and the way Marco smiled at him like you smile to a complete idiot when you try to be nice made him shrunk. These were basic things and he had no idea what he was doing. Great.

“I’m not a very good cook either, I have a few things I can do but that’s it,” Marco comforted, and when he started opening the cabinets to find a soup plate, Jean checked him out once more. The more he looked at the brunette’s body, the more drawn to it he felt. He didn’t _use_ to have body issues, he had a nice, slim body that demanded little to no effort at all, but he didn’t have muscles like _that_. No, those abs were _planned_ and those arms—

“Are you hungry?”

“What?” Jean blinked rapidly, falling back to reality and realising he had been staring and he wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been drool running down his chin. Fucking hormones, man. “No, you eat, you’re the one who’s about to pass out.”

“Have you eaten anything today?” Marco asked, squinting at him.

“Nah, but I’m not that hungry,” Jean muttered, watching Marco pour the soup on the plate. He couldn’t stop staring at every move the guy made so he ran both his hands over his face, trying to think of anything else than Marco’s ass. And that bulge. _Shit_.

“Alright, but I’m just saying,” Marco murmured, tasting the soup and nodding approvingly, “you need to eat so you don’t vanish into thin air.” Then he grinned, poking Jean with the other end of the spoon.

“My mom used to say that,” Jean huffed, wrinkling his nose, and the grin on Marco turned softer. Apologising, even. Jean shook his head as if to banish the thought, urging Marco to eat his soup before he really would faint or something. They took it to the living room, and when Marco sat on the couch and started eating, Jean started sorting out his laundry all over the apartment. The silence was disturbed only by Jean’s soft curses as he tried to untangle the pieces of clothing from one another and then throw them over all the doors and any other things he could hang things on.

“Do you need help there?” Marco chuckled, following Jean fighting with a sheet.

“No, I’m good, you keep— _shit_ —eating your soup and whatever.” He turned his head just in time to see Marco get up and turn his back to him, the towel dropping on the floor as he picked his underwear from the bed and pulled them on. He had already fucked that, twice, why was he getting so flustered about this, about Marco’s ass now? Maybe it was the way Marco moved so nonchalantly, like a person who had nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of. And once again he caught Jean staring, and this time Jean pulled the sheet over his head because that was the first thing he felt like doing and he figured maybe Marco wouldn’t notice it. Like hell.

“You alright?” Marco raised the edge of the moist fabric carefully, Jean’s red face turned into an uncomfortable frown, and Marco bit back a snort of laughter.

“’M fine,” Jean mumbled. With the help of Marco, he pulled the sheet off and they got it over his bathroom door. Ignoring Jean’s refusals of help he started hanging out the clothes to dry, smiling to himself when Jean muttered a quiet thanks. When they ran out of places to hang them, they used the sink in his bathroom and then, as a last resort, the pathetically small sink in his kitchen.

And when they were almost done, chatting about trivial things to fill the silence, Marco lifted up the last piece of clothing and quietened down, the colour fading from his face.

“Is that a—”

“It’s not mine.”

“—a thong?”

“It’s, it’s for work.”

“You… you wear this for work?”

“You do remember what I do for living right?”

“Yeah but…” Marco swallowed, the colour gradually returning to his cheeks. He stretched the thong between his index fingers, the colour suddenly deepening. “It’s so…”

“Sexy? Irresistible? I know,” Jean tried, but Marco raised his eyebrows.

“Uncomfortable?”

“More than strutting in it in front of a bunch of strangers who wanna grab your junk?” Jean smiled snidely. “Not really.” Marco hummed, still studying the surprisingly _small_ item of clothing. He seemed way too fascinated – or maybe horrified, Jean couldn’t tell – by it, and Jean snorted, grabbing it from his hands.

“Look, it’s either this or a McDonald’s costume and a bunch of overweight people asking for their diet coke.” He threw the thong back into the bag and snatched the last t-shirt and threw it on the back of his couch. “Can’t exactly wear long johns to work, y’know.” Marco winced, lost in his thought and then he shook his head sheepishly.

“No, of course not.” He licked his lips. “I just can’t… I can’t imagine you in those.” Jean couldn’t stop the smug grin spreading on his lips.

“You wanna see? It’ll make your nose bleed, I swear.”

“No, it’s fine, I believe you,” Marco said, still looking sheepish. “How are you with them? I mean, your customers.”

“Wacha mean?”

“Well, I mean…” Marco ran his hand across his chest, running his fingers over his collarbones idly. “How do you act around them?” Oh man, the opportunity was just way too juicy to _not_ use. Jean gave him a hasty wink and turned his back to Marco, took a deep breath and running his hands through his hair, he put on his work face. Easy. And then he turned back to the brunette, biting his lip with a half-smile adorning his face. He walked to the brunette, placing his fingertips on his chest, running them lightly on his skin.

“Hey handsome,” he purred, flashing his tongue over his lower lip. “What’s a decent boy like you doing in a place like this?” Marco’s face didn’t flush as deep red as Jean had hoped, but his ears flamed very visibly nevertheless. The smile that crept on his face was not only uncomfortable as hell but also stunned.

“That’s, that’s impressive,” Marco mumbled and swallowed, the motion suddenly extremely difficult. Jean wiggled his eyebrows and winked.

“I know,” he murmured. “I make them eat from my hand like well-trained animals.” And just like that he shrugged it off, the familiar contempt and boredom back in his face.

“How do you do it?” Marco asked, sincerely curious. “Have you taken acting lessons?” Jean laughed.

“It’s not _that_ good, you’re just gullible.” He shrugged. “Practice makes perfect I guess, in the beginning I couldn’t hide the disgust in my face but it gets easier with time.”

“But I don’t understand one thing,” Marco said, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why do you think there’s only this or a job in the fast food industry? There are other jobs that are just as—”

“I’m not having this conversation with you, _again_ ,” Jean interrupted him, his voice tight and sharp. Marco fell into his apologetic, puppy-like state and Jean softened. “Look, it’s not your headache. I’m a grown-ass man, I know what I’m doing.”

“Okay,” Marco agreed.

“At least I think I do.” Jean shook his head. “Let’s just, y’know, talk about something else.”

“What’s the name of the place where you work?”

“Why? You wanna come and get another lap dance?” Jean grinned and Marco grinned back.

“No, I think that one was more than enough.”

“Y’know, with your body, you’d make one helluva stripper.” Jean enjoyed the fleeing moment in which Marco’s eyes widened as he tried to determine if the blonde was kidding or dead serious, and when he landed on somewhere in between the choices, he smiled carefully.

“Oh, well, I’m not very flexible. Don’t you, uh, do things around the pole or something?”

“’Do things’? Sure, we do things around the pole, and then some.”

“Yeah, I could, I could never do that. I’m stiff as a board, honestly.”

“But you’d consider it if you weren’t?” Jean raised an eyebrow, and Marco snorted.

“Honestly? I’d rather flip the hamburgers, at least I wouldn’t have to be half-naked most of the time.”

“It’s not that bad, it just makes you hate yourself but you get used to it.” Jean shrugged, trying to avoid seeing the traces of pity on Marco’s face. “But y’know, the place I work, it’s one of the sleaziest this side of the town has seen. If anyone ever looked too closely, the place would be shut down in a heartbeat.”

“So why don’t you—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Marco shook his head, slapping his hand over his mouth.

“So why don’t I go somewhere else?” Jean finished the sentence, narrowing his eyes, and Marco shook his head again, looking ashamed. “Because I’m nothing special, and no decent place would ever hire me. They have standards, y’know. I’m good, but not _that_ good.”

“I thought you were just fine,” Marco mumbled from behind his hand, but Jean shot him a dirty look.

“Thanks, but Jean _just fine_ Kirschtein doesn’t sound like someone you wanna pay for, does it now?”

“I mean, I thought you were good.”

“Gullible, I stand behind my word choice.” Marco made a face of disapproval and annoyance, but he didn’t argue. He just wrinkled his nose more when Jean rolled his eyes at him and made a dismissive hand wave. “Besides, your opinion doesn’t count, I know you liked it because you, y’know…”

“You’re never going to let that rest are you?” Marco sighed defeatedly.

“Maybe when it stops being funny.”

 

It was six in the evening when Marco finally started putting his last night’s clothes on. Jean didn’t fight him, and he let the guy get dressed, watching him like a hawk as he did. Marco even worked the tie back around his neck, responding to Jean’s eye-roll with a shrug.

“Where else am I supposed to put it?” he asked, and Jean hummed.

“In your pocket or something.”

“It’ll get wrinkly.” He smoothed it out and buttoned his jacket up. “Besides, a suit without a tie looks like it’s missing something.”

“Who cares, you look like a guy doing the walk of shame anyway, a tie or no tie,” Jean stated. “Now you just look like you’re trying desperately to hide it.” Marco huffed but didn’t say anything, pulling his fancy shoes on. Then he turned to face Jean sitting on the couch, and he shrugged.

“I guess I’m going, then.” It sounded more like a question than a statement, but Jean’s only response was a lazy shrug.

“’Kay,” he said, but Marco didn’t move from his spot. He looked lost and helpless and like he might need to be pushed to get moving, like something had gotten him stuck on the floor. “You need help with that?” Jean asked.

“Oh. No, it’s fine,” Marco mumbled. “Thank you for your… hospitality.” A weak smile. Jean snorted and shook his head.

“Don’t mention it.” And when Marco still didn’t move, just stared somewhere past Jean still looking lost, Jean got up from the sofa with a yawn. He closed the short distance between them and extended his hand. “So, take care or something.” It was even clumsier than his normal clumsiness, and Marco wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. He pushed the hand away and pulled the shorter guy in for a hug, and maybe that was something Jean had hoped he would do. He slid his own arms around Marco, the fabric of his jacket luxurious and smooth under his fingertips.

“You too, or something,” Marco murmured with a light chuckle. “You’re not very good at this are you?” Jean huffed, burying his face deeper into the crook of Marco’s neck.

“Like you’re any better,” he mumbled against the guy’s skin, taking an unintended sniff of Marco’s scent. His clothes smelled like some really fancy aftershave and his skin smelled warm and safe. He wound his arms a little tighter around the guy, Marco following his example. There they stood, the stripper and the to-be lawyer for a long time, neither of them daring to break the silence. When Marco tried to loosen his embrace, Jean didn’t, and he held the blonde just a little longer.

“Do you have to get up early tomorrow?” Jean asked, still holding onto the brunette, still breathing in his scent. His eyes had fallen shut and he watched the colourful patterns creating behind his lids. Marco hummed in affirmation.

“I have a big debate tomorrow and I still need to go through some things tonight.” Jean nodded and opening his eyes, he let go and took a step back, but they were still standing closely, he could still smell the aftershave. Marco leaned forward and captured Jean’s lips in a soft kiss. Jean let his hands fly back around Marco, and Marco pulled him back against himself. His other hand stroked the short hair on the back of Jean’s neck idly, making Jean tilt his head slightly to deepen the kiss. He moved his lips against Marco’s just barely, the brunette sighing contently.

When they parted, their lips reluctantly leaving the other’s, they let go of each other awkwardly. Jean cleared his throat, his eyes looking anywhere but Marco, and he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, so he shoved them in the pockets of his sweatpants. Then he decided that was no good as Marco walked to the door so he crossed his arms across his chest, licking his lips, the faint feeling of Marco still lingering on them. Marco opened the door.

“I’ll see you?” It was definitely a question, and Jean nodded hastily, staring at Marco’s feet.

“I guess, yeah.”

“You should eat something, order a pizza or something.”

“Thanks, _mom_ , I will.” They both grinned. Marco waved his hand and Jean nodded.

“Bye.”

“Yeah, bye.” And the last smile Marco gave him before the door clicked shut, dimples and all, was a smile that would haunt Jean until his dying day. He swallowed difficultly. He hadn’t realised just how hard his heart had been beating and how cold the apartment suddenly was. This was completely unknown area to him, this was the wasteland he never set his foot in, and now, without any warnings whatsoever, he had been thrown there feet first. He kept thinking about Marco in his mismatched socks talking about painting and jogging. He wondered if the brunette still painted, if he had time or energy to do that. He kept thinking about last night, kept recalling Marco’s warm hands learning his body, his fingers dragging through his hair, his nails against his scalp. It made him shudder, warmness boiling in his gut. And when he took a shower later, he jerked off to the memory.

 

Even his sheets smelled like Marco now. He buried his face in the pillow and took a good, long whiff of it, ready to jerk off again after it. It was embarrassing to be so worked up over something so stupid, but he couldn’t help it. And for once he didn’t even consider taking it out on someone else, like Eren for example, he didn’t want to ruin it by letting someone else in his bed.

He didn’t get too far, though, his sweatpants halfway off his legs when his phone rang. What a drag. He contemplated on just ignoring it, but since there was the slight chance that it might’ve been Marco or you know, whatever, someone important, he pulled his pants back on and checked the caller. Not Marco.

“I don’t have a shift tonight,” he answered.

“I know, you wanna have? It’s Thomas again, the bastard.”

“Nah, I don’t think so, not tonight.”

“Come on. A few of your regulars are here, including the crier.”

“Which one of them?”

“The one with spot baldness.”

“Jesus, I hate ‘im.”

“But you love his money so tell me you’re coming.”

“Alright, fine, I’m broke anyway, but look, I need your make-up skills.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, got my face busted and maybe something else.”

“Fine, be here at ten.”

They had nicknames for all the regulars. They had the criers, the gropers, the jizzers and the worst, the lingerers. The guys who stayed after closing time, offering to give the strippers a ride or just wanting to talk to them, to get their numbers and their real names. Mostly they were harmless, sad losers, who wouldn’t have hurt a fly, but sometimes they got violent, especially if they were drunk.

Most of the strippers had faced some kind of abuse or harassment, it was the occupational hazard that came with the territory and the audience, and most of them carried keys in between their fingers when they walked to their cars or to the cab. Most of them used fake names and never gave out their real phone number to anyone, not to mention did they ever talk to customers outside work, regulars or not.

Jean was careful but he hadn’t always been careful enough, yet he considered himself pretty lucky. He had fucked up once, badly, and had paid for it handsomely, but he saw it as an educational experience. At least he knew now what to do and what not to do. Rule number 1: do not, in any situation, get in a closed space alone with a customer you are not familiar with. Rule number 2: carry something sharp with you at all times.

Not all the strippers did extra for extra pay, but those who did, didn’t talk about it. It was not only against the policy of the club but it was also illegal, and they had to be cautious of new people trying to get the extra treatment. The club didn’t give two shits about the breaking of the rules, but getting caught would have meant tough times, so when it happened, they looked the other way and covered their ears, singing _la la la_. The overall attitude about it was sloppy, and the mentality “please do not do it or if you do, do not get caught”.

The cardinal rule Jean held for himself was that only do regulars and guys who looked harmless enough. Someone he could fight off if it ever came to that, someone who looked rich enough, and guys with rings on their ring fingers. They didn’t want the attention drawn to themselves, so if they were offered extra, they behaved, because misbehaving would have led to severe consequences. Sure, it was strictly forbidden to turn the security cameras off in the private rooms and they only had themselves to blame if something bad happened, but the customers didn’t know that. They saw the camera and they assumed things, and they rarely tried to get handsy inside the club. Outside the club, that was completely a different matter.

This guy Jean had seen many times before. He was way too handsome to be in a sleazy club like this one, and it had made Jean suspicious since day one. He didn’t have a ring, so maybe he was a public face and chose this club because it was the most invisible under the radar. Either way, there he sat again, not in the farthest corner but far enough to melt into the shadows, the only indication of him being there the tip of his lit cigarette.

Jean only approached guys who looked like they wanted something; some of the people sitting in the club were there just to ogle the strippers without any intention to give out their money without making the strippers bend down backwards for it. They sat in solitude and chugged down their lukewarm beers and didn’t turn their eyes away from the half-naked bodies around them for one second.

This guy wasn’t like that. He looked approachable enough, but still there was something weird about him. He didn’t belong, just like Eren hadn’t belonged the day Jean had seen him first time. He recognised these guys, and he doubted this one was even gay. But then again, why would’ve he been there in the first place if it wasn’t for the naked guys? Maybe he was going through a near mid-life crisis and didn’t know whether he was a fish or a monkey. Nevertheless, Jean walked to him, and the guy leaned forward when he saw Jean coming. Alright, so he was definitely looking for _something_.

“Hey there, stranger,” Jean purred, the words flowing effortlessly off his tongue. “You feeling lonely, sitting here all by yourself?” The guy stubbed out his cigarette, blowing out the last of the smoke from his lungs, and smiled lopsidedly.

“Not really,” he spoke. “But I don’t mind company.” Jean smiled, cocking his head to side.

“It’s your lucky day, then, because I’m a little lonely and could use some company, too.” He rested his hands on the table between them and eyed the guy with a sly smile. “Hey, I know, why don’t we take it somewhere quieter, and you can tell me what you like.” The guy nodded, and Jean led him to a private room. He let the guy in and followed him, turning the camera off indiscreetly as he shut the door and turned on the light outside telling everyone the room was occupied. The guy had sat down on the lonely chair in the middle of the room, his back to Jean, and the blonde walked to him.

“So tell me,” he crooned, watching as the guy leaned back in his chair and tilted his head up. “Have you ever gotten a lap dance from someone as pretty as me?” A disarming smile to soften the mood. The guy smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes, not quite.

“Can’t say that I have,” he answered after considering it a while.

“Good,” Jean murmured, and he slid himself in the lap of the stranger. “I only have two rules, but they’re easy to remember. Firstly, you never touch me unless I give you permission. You touch me without asking me first and I walk out of here and you get thrown out, do you understand?” The guy nodded, keeping his eyes locked with Jean’s.

“The second rule is that the payment is upfront,” he ran his hands up the guy’s chest and smiled. “But if you really like it, you’re encouraged to pay some extra. After all, I aim to please.” Another nod and the same half-smile.

The guy paid nicely, Jean couldn’t complain, but when he finished, the guy didn’t have even a half-boner. Disappointing.

“Didn’t you like it?” he asked, still straddling the silent stranger, pouting his lips in a frown.

“No, it was fine.”

“See, fine isn’t what I do,” Jean mused. “C’mon, tell me, is something troubling you? The biggest compliment you can give me is a tent in your pants.” He cast a sad glance at the guy, pulling his strings just so. This was where he would tell Jean he had hard time getting it up, and Jean would offer to help with that. The guy shrugged.

“It’s just,” he cleared his throat, his voice quivering with embarrassment. Bingo. “I sometimes have trouble with… it.” Jean hummed encouragingly. Perfect.

“I’m pretty sure we can work that,” he murmured. “My expertise happens to lie in that area.” The guy narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

“Really?” he asked, and Jean nodded slowly.

“It’s cheaper than therapy. What do you say?” He licked his lips and waited for the guy to get the hint and to give his permission. He never said it out loud, if the customer couldn’t figure it out himself, it usually meant it was better to send them away anyway.

“Sure,” the guy responded. Painfully easy. Jean rubbed his fingers together and gave the guy a figure, before he slid to the floor between his legs and worked his pants open smoothly.

Maybe there had been some kind of warning signs there, but he hadn’t seen them, not even one, not even with his expertise with people. When the guy dug something out of the inside breast pocket, Jean assumed it was the wallet he’d shoved in there earlier.

It was the badge of nothing more and nothing less than a fucking cop. An undercover cop, Jean knew they sometimes made stings on clubs like this but he never knew they’d appear here, the club which not many even knew existed. He stared at the stupid fucking badge straight into face as it was flipped open in front of him, his hands still on the guy’s crotch.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, drawing his hands back. No reason to act anymore and he felt terribly used and short-changed.

“Unfortunately it’s not your lucky day,” the guy spoke softly, pushing the badge back in his pocket. “You’re under arrest.”

“Oh come on, for this?” Jean protested. “Don’t you have any real criminals to catch?”

“Sorry kid, I’m only doing my job.” The guy stood up, gesturing Jean to stand up. “Put your hands behind your head and stand still.” Jean sighed but obeyed.

“Look, can I get dressed at least?”

“Alright,” the guy agreed, “but for your own sake, don’t try anything stupid.”

“Not in this thong I won’t,” Jean mumbled, and they walked out of the room, the guy grabbing his hand firmly around Jean’s shoulder. He saw some of the customers heading for the door quickly when they saw Jean and the cop walking through the place, and some of the strippers gave him dirty looks, the others outright pitying him. Everyone knew what happened, and everyone would deny knowing anything about such business going on. If you screwed up, got caught, you were on your own.

 

Outside Jean got handcuffed like a low-life criminal, and the guy stuffed him in the backseat of his car. He walked around the car to the other side and sat on the driver’s seat. He looked at Jean from the rear-view mirror, the blonde giving him a dirty look.

“If looks could kill, huh?” the guy chuckled, starting the engine. The angry frown on Jean’s face only deepened. As they steered out on the road, the guy cleared his throat.

“Look, maybe this’ll make you feel better: I really don’t give a shit about how you entertain your customers and if you agree to co-operate, you’ll be back doing whatever it is that you do in no time.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t recommend getting caught again, though.”

“So why am I here?” Jean asked flatly.

“Because I need something and I think maybe you can help me,” the guy replied, taking a turn to left. “There’s a small but rather persistent drug cartel in this town, and I know for a fact they use the strippers at your club as dealers.” He stopped at lights and looked at Jean through the mirror again.

“How old are you, kid?” he asked.

“Stop calling me a kid,” Jean grunted, and the guy chuckled again.

“Fair enough. So how old?”

“Twenty-three in a few months.”

“What’s your name? And I mean your real name, not your stage name Adonis or Booty Boy or, I don’t know, whatever male strippers usually use.” This time Jean uttered a dry laugh.

“It’s Jean,” he replied.

“Last name?”

“Kirschtein. Can I go now?”

“Nice to meet you, Jean, I’m Mike. And I’m sure you can work out the answer for that question, you seem like a smart kid.”

“I’m gonna say ‘yes’.”

“Keep trying.”

“How d’you know I’m not a dealer?”

“I got a good nose when it comes to people, and also because I’ve been watching you.” They turned to right. “I don’t know, you seem like a guy who’s ready to sell others to save his own ass, just what I’m looking for.” He wasn’t wrong, but Jean objected by huffing loudly and squirmed in the backseat, his hands going numb from the plastic handcuff around them.

“So what do you want from me?” he finally groaned. Mike stayed quiet for uncomfortably long, concentrating on keeping the car on the road, but eventually he made a pensive noise.

“I need anything, any information you might have, names, whatever.”

“What if I have none?”

“Then charges will be pressed against you and you’ll be out of my hair in no time,” Mike said happily.

“So lemme get this straight,” Jean grunted. “Either I snitch someone or I’ll be fucked.”

“If you want to see it that way.”

“What’s the other way of seeing it?”

“How about this.” Mike stopped on another set of lights, the look on his face much more stern this time as he looked at Jean again. “One guy’s already dead because of some new shit they’ve been getting out on the streets. How does that sound?” Jean didn’t say anything, just sunk deeper into his seat. He couldn’t argue with that, and of course, _of course_ he was going to say anything that was going to get him out of this. He would have ratted on his own mother if it had ever come to that. Actually that was a really bad example, since he would’ve ratted on his mom happily, for no reason at all. It was going to cost him his job, other strippers didn’t take it too kindly when their own turned against them, and there was no possible way for him to ever go back if he was going to name names.

“Fine, whatever, I might know one guy,” he spoke after a brief silence. He didn’t see the incredibly smug grin on Mike’s face, but he heard it loud and clear in his voice.

“Good.”

“I’m gonna piss off a lotta people if I do this, am I gonna be off the hook if I give you someone else?” he asked.

“We’ll see. If the information you give turns out to be helpful then I don’t see why not.” Mike cleared his throat and sniffed. “Like I said, you’re not top priority, you’re not even small prey, you’re just something that got caught on the net and now I gotta figure out how to use that.” Jean huffed at him but stayed silent. He didn’t have anything against cops per se, only the the fact that they usually treated him like shit and belittled and ignored his problems. He had learned quickly the worth he had as a citizen in the eyes of the law, and that was zero. He could disappear from the face of the Earth and he still wouldn’t be top priority. Maybe this guy wasn’t any different, but the way he talked to Jean like to an actual normal person made him feel a little less crappy about the situation.

 

It wasn’t Jean’s first time in jail, that one night inerasable in his mind, but it was his first time being there sober. His cries about a promised phone call as seen on movies were muted by excuses how he had to wait in the cell as some papers had to be sorted out. Mike told him the bail was only to ensure he would come back when Mike called, and no charges would be pressed if he did as he was told.

So Jean ended up sulking in the farthest corner as the two boozers sharing the space with him stared at him with glassy eyes. About half an hour later he was let out to use the phone, and then he complained because he couldn’t remember anyone’s phone number. That was another fight and he was allowed to use his confiscated mobile long enough so he could find a number and dial it on the landline.

It was already two in the morning, there was no guarantee he was going to be awake. Actually it was more likely he was half asleep like any decent citizen at this hour. Jean’s hand holding the phone was sweating.

“Hello?” His voice was sleepy and hoarse, but he was awake, and Jean took a deep breath.

“Hey, man, it’s me. Um, Jean. I’m sorry, look, this is really shitty of me I know, but I need help.” A long, enigmatic silence. For a second Jean was worried he’d fallen asleep. Then the guy hummed in the other end, holding back a yawn. “Can you come and bail me outta jail? I’ll explain everything later. Also, you need money, but you already know that.” The guy agreed, not exactly thrilled, but he promised to come.

And about twenty minutes later he arrived, his hair neat as always but face more tired than usually. He didn’t look happy, but when he saw Jean, he smiled his usual warm smile.

“Look, man, I’m really sorry, I am,” Jean hurried to say, but Marco waved his hand and shook his head.

“It’s fine.” They walked out of the place with Mike’s eyes on them.

 

Outside Jean dug his pockets for a cigarette before he remembered he still hadn’t bought any. He should’ve asked Marco to get him a pack.

“You’re not in, umm, in trouble, are you?” Marco asked as they stopped on the sidewalk, Jean zipping his jacket closed. He shook his head.

“Nah, it’s just a misunderstanding.”

“They don’t usually make you pay for bail if they’re not taking it to the court.” Shit. Jean had forgotten who he was dealing with here. He should’ve picked Connie after all. He shrugged, avoiding Marco’s sharp gaze.

“Y’know, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” he explained, shoving his bare hands in his pockets. Marco looked nowhere near satisfied with the answer, his eyes narrowing.

“Jean, it’s just that, the umm, the account… My parents keep an eye on my bank account since they’re the ones paying for everything.” He rubbed his neck and sighed. “They’re going to be asking about it and I need to know you’re not, you know, involved in anything serious.”

“I’ll pay you back, I promise,” Jean mumbled. The heat of embarrassment flashed in his chest. Marco would learn pretty soon he could never pay back, but maybe Jean would have fled the country by then.

“No, that’s not… It’s fine, I don’t care about the money, but the thing is, my parents are going to ask questions.” Marco took a deep breath. “That is, if I ever talk to them again, but anyway.”

“So you still haven’t called your mom?”

“No,” he said simply. Jean didn’t try to pry more. Instead he looked up at Marco carefully.

“I’m sorry, I really am,” he muttered. “I know you have to get up early, I just… I panicked.”

“I know, it’s fine,” Marco responded, and his voice was soft as he mustered up a smile. “So are you going to tell me what happened?” Jean ran his cold hands through his hair, blowing air out of his aching lungs.

“Well, I s’pose I owe you an explanation, but is it too much to ask if I do it tomorrow? I have a headache and I just, I really just wanna go home and cry myself to sleep now.” He let his hands fall on his sides, his shoulders sinking, and he felt like sinking all the way to the ground and staying there until things would look up. Suddenly it was all hitting him, the fact that in two weeks he would have no more a job to go to and the fact that he was broke, penniless, and the fact that his life was shit and he was getting sick of it. He was sick and tired, but mostly just powerless and helpless and yeah, curling into a foetal position on the ground sounded like a plan.

“Of course, it’s fine,” Marco spoke gently. He rested his hand on Jean’s shoulder and gave him an encouraging squeeze. “You want me to call you a taxi?” Jean shook his head.

“I’ll walk, it’s cheaper.”

“It’s a long walk from here.”

“I’m used to it, it’s no problem.” He eyed Marco carefully. “You… you wanna come? Shit, I mean… Fuck, I don’t know what I mean.” He covered his face with his hands like any grown up would, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw lights.

“You’re right, I’m not good at this.”

“That was perfectly fine,” Marco chuckled, but he looked tired and Jean knew exactly what he was going to say before he said it. “But I really have to get up early tomorrow, so…”

“Yeah, I get it, I dunno why I asked.” He swallowed the dryness coating his tongue. “I guess I, I guess the idea of going home alone really sucks balls right now.” Jean didn’t mean to sound so pathetic, but he felt pathetic; he felt miserable and cold and lonely, and he was ready to call Eren, for fuck’s sake, that’s how desperate he was. Marco licked his lips.

“You can spend the night at my place if you want to, it’s no problem,” he spoke quietly, and Jean raised his gaze and tried to determine whether Marco was saying it because he pitied him or if he really meant it. “My place is closer anyway, so you wouldn’t have to walk so long.” Maybe there was a grain of hesitation there, but Jean could ignore that.

“Are you sure it’s fine?”

“It’s fine,” Marco smiled. “As long as we get moving now, I’m getting cold and it’s really late as it is.” They set out to walking, Jean straightening up from his slumped state.

 

“Holy shit it’s freezing out there.” Jean peeled off his jacket and made it out of his shoes, the warmth of Marco’s apartment making his cold skin tingle. Marco put his own jacket in the closet and stretching his arms, he yawned.

“I really need to get back to bed, if you’re hungry or want to take a shower or anything, feel free to do so. There’s an unused tooth brush in the bathroom and I can get you a towel if you need.” Jean shook his head rapidly.

“Nah man, I’m good, go to bed.” He bit his lips, considering his next choice of words. “I can crash the couch if you wanna.” Yeah, he really wasn’t good at this. Marco rolled his eyes, a wide grin splitting his face in half.

“Come on, I’m not going to let you sleep on the couch, I have a king size bed, you know.” He looked at Jean and chuckled. “Besides, I’d have to find another blanket and sheets and that’s just too much effort right now.” Jean shrugged.

“If you say so.” He followed Marco to the bedroom, uncertain of what else to do, and the brunette pulled his shirt over his head as soon as he got in the immediate proximity of the bed, his pants soon following. He crawled under the blanket with a deep sigh. Jean wandered to the other side of the bed and got rid of his hoodie and t-shirt, and then he stopped.

“Um, Marco,” he spoke, fidgeting his shirt in his hands. “You wouldn’t, you wouldn’t happen to have a clean pair of boxers? I’m… I didn’t have much time to get dressed at work and so…”

“You’re not wearing underwear?” Marco asked incredulously.

“Oh no, that’s not it.” Jean took a deep breath, unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down enough to reveal the ever so familiar thong Marco had been fingering just hours before. “I didn’t have time to change.” The darkness hid the uneasiness in Jean’s face, and when Marco turned on the nightstand lamp and got up to go through his closet, Jean tried to hide his embarrassment behind his hands. Wait, why was _he_ embarrassed?

“There you go,” Marco said as he extended a pair for him from across the bed. “And don’t worry, you can keep them.” He was grinning mischievously, the bastard. What the hell had happened to the blushing school boy who couldn’t speak from his nervousness when Jean flirted with him even the slightest?

Marco clicked the light shut and Jean wormed his way into the boxers that were at least two sizes too big. They looked ridiculous on him, he realised, but it was better than nothing, for various reasons. He slid in the bed, Marco’s eyes already closed and his face buried in his fluffy pillow. Jean lied on his back, but he was way too wired to sleep, his muscles were stiff and his brain was projecting flashing pictures behind his lids, so he opened his eyes and stared into the darkness.

The darkness didn’t stare back, but it hung heavy on him, and he kept staring into it as long as he could without getting anxious, and then he turned his head so he could make sure Marco was still there, beside him. And he was.

“Marco?” he whispered. Part of him hoped the brunette would already be deep in sleep, and the other, much louder part hoped he would respond.

“Hmm?” And he did. His eyes didn’t open, but he slid his hand from under his pillow and searched until he found Jean, his fingers brushing against his arm. He left it there.

“You asleep?”

“Hmm,” Marco hummed, and he opened his other eye slightly. “What’s wrong?” His voice was sleepy and thick, partially muffled by the pillow.

“Nothing, go back to sleep, I’m sorry.” And the same part that had hoped for Marco to be awake hoped for him to push further, to keep asking, to stay awake for him. He couldn’t find the words to describe what he felt, he couldn’t find ways to express himself, but yet he hoped Marco would ask.

Marco’s eyes were both closed now, but his fingers were stroking Jean’s arm gently, sending electric shivers through him, the hair on his body standing up. His fingers slowed down until they stopped and Jean realised he was close to falling asleep again. He looked peaceful and calm in the swimming darkness. He looked like a man with no to little worries.

“I can’t sleep,” Jean whispered quietly, so quietly he was surprised when Marco reacted. His fingers felt Jean’s skin, sliding along his arm and he scooted closer. He mumbled something that wasn’t any language known to man, and wound his arm around Jean, pulling the guy close with a sigh. Jean rolled on his side and snuggled even closer, nuzzling his face in the crook of Marco’s neck, where he sighed contently. Marco’s fingers stroked his bare back, so slowly and so patiently, and he hummed when Jean slid his own arm around the brunette’s broad torso.

He just wanted Marco closer. He didn’t know how close, but he knew it had to be closer, closer than this, closer than ever before.

And when he placed soft, unhurried kisses along Marco’s neck to his jaw, the guy tilting his head back involuntarily, he wanted Marco to want it too. He wanted Marco to want him closer. It didn’t make any sense, but it didn’t matter since Marco’s hand had started wandering, Jean’s kisses turning heavier, wetter, his body pressing against Marco’s so tightly no might in the world could tear them apart.

And when Marco was on him, in him, all over him, his nails sinking into Marco’s back and Marco’s words and breath hot on his skin, he knew it was a bad idea and he would regret it later, but right now, with Marco’s mouth on his, he didn’t care. He let all his self-built walls come down, nothing keeping him safe from the outside world anymore.

Marco made him feel something, with him Jean wasn’t just an empty shell or a mindless zombie wandering from day to day with no meaning or no real purpose. It was like he had a purpose, like he had a meaning, like he wasn’t completely worthless, disposable, one time fun. He didn’t feel complete or unconditionally happy, but he felt less broken, less empty, like maybe, _maybe_ he wasn’t beyond repair. Maybe he could be saved if he really wanted to be saved.

He needed to make Marco stay. He needed Marco to want him to stay. He needed Marco close, closer, just like this.

He needed, more than anything; he needed to make Marco stay.

And so he clung onto the guy, onto the idea, the realisation, the fact that he could be something more and maybe Eren had been wrong, maybe someone could, maybe someone _would_ stay. Maybe he could be more than just a pretty face, even with his flaws and shortcomings.

He wasn’t crying but something made Marco stop, his slow movements coming to a complete halt and he held Jean close as the blonde fought for air, digging his nails deeper into Marco’s skin, trying to pull him with him where his mind was, trying to make Marco see what he saw, feel what he felt.

“I like you,” he whispered, his lips brushing Marco’s ear. It was the best he could give right now even if it wasn’t much, but Marco took it anyway, he took it and when they kissed again, he let the words slip past his own lips to Jean, and Jean wanted to believe them. So badly.

He would make Marco stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOO what do you think is going to happen? The next chapter might take longer than a month since I'm participating in [this](http://thejmelf.tumblr.com/) thing and another Christmas-y thing and yeah, I'm only two and a half men and can do so much.
> 
> I appreciate your comments and kudos so much. No no, you don't understand. _So_ much. /creepy stare
> 
> Keep [tumbling](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com).


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I miss you - I'm not gonna crack  
> I love you - I'm not gonna crack
> 
> (Nirvana - Lithium)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months, shhhh. We don't count December because I was busy most of the month, so technically it's only been a month, yay. Hope you guys had a great Christmas/whatever you celebrate or don't celebrate yadda yadda, I hope it was good. If you wanna read one of the things I wrote during December, you can find it [here](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com/post/106045078284/marco-doesnt-know-how-toasters-work-and-jean-is)!
> 
> I have big news! I have a beta for this monster, finally. Only took 11 chapters, eh? A big thanks to [B](http://doyouqueue.tumblr.com) for fixing this mess. You guys have no idea, you didn't have to see the red pen markings... So anyway. I'm kinda messing around with the tags because a) me + tagging = disaster, b) I realised having e.g. a tag "suicide" is kinda misleading so I tried to fix them and make them more suitable. If you've got ideas/suggestions/anything, lemme know.
> 
> I'm kinda excited, I hooooooooope so much you like this.
> 
> I still have a [tumblr](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com). Come say hi or tell me how many grammatical errors and spelling mistakes my earlier chapters contain. A lot, I know. One of these days I will.... stop thinking about it and continue to not do anything about it.

The morning rolled in uninvited and unwanted. Marco’s alarm went off at six, three hours after their breathing had finally steadied, and their bodies had fallen asleep, tangled up with each other. It would have normally been uncomfortable and awkward for Jean, but he had never slept so peacefully, whatever dreams he had had vanishing into the morning air as he flinched awake at the annoying alarm sound. Marco reached for the alarm – Jean following his outstretched body like he was glued onto it – and when the noise stopped, he sighed heavily, curling against Marco’s side, his arms clinging tighter around him. Marco stretched his stiff limbs, trying to rub the stubborn sleep out of his eyes.

“I have to get going,” he yawned, but Jean made a disagreeing sound, only snuggling closer.

“No you don’t,” he mumbled. “You hafta stay.” Marco chuckled, running his hand through Jean’s hair and placing a soft kiss on top of his head.

“I really do though, I promised to drop by a friend’s and I don’t want to be late.” Jean hummed in understanding but didn’t loosen his grip. When Marco tried to peel him off gently, he grunted and wrapped his leg around Marco’s waist.

“Is cold outside and warm ‘ere. Stay.”

“You know there’s nothing else I’d rather do, but I really, really must,” Marco said apologetically and peeled Jean’s limbs from around himself, the blonde whining in response. “Besides, don’t you have lectures?” That made Jean finally let go, and he replaced Marco with his pillow, hugging it against his chest. Marco got off the bed and pulled on a pair of pants.

“Nah, I gave up,” Jean murmured. Marco turned to look at him, but Jean’s eyes were closed, his face buried into the pillow.

“You gave up?” Marco asked with confusion. “What, school?”

“Yeh,” Jean agreed, yawning into the pillow, squeezing it tighter against himself. “I’m failing everything anyway.” Marco frowned at his comment, crawling back to bed. He leaned down to kiss Jean’s cheek.

“You want to talk about it?” he murmured, rubbing his nose against Jean’s skin. The blonde shivered and shook his head.

“You don’t wanna be late,” he answered sluggishly, avoiding the question completely.

“Maybe you should go to your lectures anyway,” Marco suggested, still hovering above Jean, who reached up with eyes shut to pull the guy closer. Marco let him, lowering himself on the bed and Jean immediately wrapped himself around him, sighing when he settled against Marco. “Just in case,” Marco whispered, the muffled grunt out of Jean making him chuckle.

“Does that mean you want me outta here?” Jean questioned against his skin. Marco shook his head quickly, nudging the blonde a little.

“No, of course not,” he responded, his tone borderline insulted. “You can stay as long as you want.”

“You should stop worrying about other people so much,” Jean opened his other eye and squinted up at Marco. The brunette furrowed his brow but cracked him a soft smile.

“I just think you shouldn’t give up, not just yet.”

“So when _can_ I give up then?” Jean pointed out, satisfied with himself when Marco huffed and nudged him again.

“The semester’s almost over, right?” There was a point to his words, but out of habit, Jean argued with another grunt, because it was easier than trying to uphold a real conversation. Marco clicked his tongue and ran his fingers through the messy, blonde hair, before he set to unwrapping Jean’s limbs from around himself once again. The blonde made whiny sounds, but gave up his fight eventually. As Marco got out of the bed, Jean scooped the pillow and as much of the blanket as he could hold against himself and snuggled the lump.

“If you stay ten minutes longer, I’ll go to school,” he tried drowsily, grinning as Marco laughed at him.

“Are you trying to bribe me?” he scolded amusedly, pulling on a t-shirt over his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game there.” Jean peeked at him from behind his blanket barricade, his eyes flashing mischievously. Marco shook his head slowly, waving his index finger at Jean. The blonde didn’t say anything, just followed closely as Marco yawned and stretched his arms over his head, the t-shirt rising just slightly, revealing the dark trail of hair disappearing into his pants. It was more than enough to wake Jean up entirely, his morning wood pitching an impressive tent against the loose boxers. He curled tighter against the blanket.

“You want some coffee?” Marco was happily unaware of Jean’s hungry stares as he walked out of the room, Jean’s eyes keenly following the sway of his hips.

“Sure,” he called out after the brunette. He contemplated on rubbing one out but ended up counting to 100 instead, daring to get up only after he had stopped fantasising about Marco’s ass.

 

Jean could keep neither his mind nor his hands completely off Marco, and eventually he pushed Marco against the fancy kitchen counter and gave him a quick, sloppy blowjob, throwing Marco’s thoughts and schedule off tracks. He half-sprinted through his morning routine after it, his cheeks flaming deep red. Jean couldn’t lie, he loved seeing Marco so flustered, and whenever the brunette cast a glance at his direction, he licked his lips and winked at the guy, sipping his coffee without a worry in the world. Bit by bit he was breaking Marco’s brain into tiny pieces and oh, he enjoyed it thoroughly.

“Okay, I think I’ve got everything now,” Marco announced from the hallway, throwing his shoes and jacket on hastily, his face flushed with frustration. “I feel like I’ve forgotten something but—”

“Relax.” Jean jumped off the couch he had been lounging on and wandered to the hallway, hiding a yawn behind the back of his hand. “You’ve been running around like a dog chasing his tail for ten minutes now, I’m exhausted from just watching.” He groaned, stretching his arms above his head enjoyably. It was quite impossible for Marco to deepen the frown on his face, with his eyebrows so tightly knit together, but somehow he managed so – accompanied by an irritated huff.

“If _you_ didn’t try to distract me so much, I would already be on my way,” he muttered, “so _technically_ it’s entirely your fault.” Jean didn’t even try to erase the self-satisfied smirk on his face, and he dived against Marco with an _oof_ , burying himself against the guy like a lovesick kitten.

“’m not sorry,” he murmured, squeezing his arms tightly against Marco. “You’re really loud in the morning, know that? You’re usually so quiet—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Marco interrupted, but despite himself he still wound his arms around Jean’s naked torso, the blonde chuckling at him. “You’re doing it again and I have to get going, I’m _late_ —”

“You should stay,” Jean sighed, ignoring Marco’s refusal. He listened to the guy swallowing thickly, perfectly aware that the brunette’s objections had become sparser and sparser like he was actually considering it.

“I—I can’t, you know that,” Marco murmured softly, the frustration lines on his face evening out. He was definitely considering it. Maybe, _maybe_ if Jean played his cards right, he could melt the last drops of hesitation out of Marco. So he pressed tighter against his jacket-hidden body and sighed again.

“Y’know what?” He heard Marco breathe a quiet ‘what’. “You should come back to bed with me.”

“You’re horrible, utterly horrible.”

“Skip one class and go to the next,” Jean suggested, biting his lip. He pulled back to take a look at Marco. “I swear it’ll be worth it.” Marco swallowed difficultly. It wasn’t like he didn’t believe Jean’s promise, because he did, oh yes he did. He had been fighting Jean off all morning, all his energy now used and worn out. It didn’t help that Jean leaned forward on his toes and captured his lips in a kiss that insinuated of all things coming.

“I—” It was his last, weak attempt to make Jean back off, but as his lower lip got tugged in between Jean’s teeth, he really couldn’t even remember what it was that he had been meaning to say. And more than that, he couldn’t remember why he had refused in the first place, because right now nothing sounded better than cancelling everything and crawling back to bed with the half-naked guy in his apartment. As if to verify this, Jean’s tongue was all of a sudden in his mouth, silencing the last of his pathetic refusals and his sly hands tried to worm their way under his jacket, and Marco’s brain, as scrambled as it was, decided to give in and stop fighting the blood pulsing hot and demanding in his veins. He pushed Jean against the wall, the blonde a little surprised by the turn of the events, but the way Marco kissed him back feverishly made him melt and moan hoarsely into his mouth. They had barely gotten Marco’s jacket off when he scooped Jean off the floor, their mouths never breaking contact.

They made it as far as on the couch, where getting rid of most clothes felt like too much work so they left half of them on. For the first time ever Marco was louder than Jean, and the blonde couldn’t even find the power in himself to tease Marco about it.

Eventually they were able to gather enough strength in their post-orgasm exhaustion and wander to the bed, Marco’s pants still hanging on his other leg along with his boxers. He kicked them off and crawled in bed with Jean, the guy immediately pulling him into a desperate, heated kiss.

“You know, I have never skipped a class before,” he spoke gently after they’d worn out most of the sexual energy. Jean was curled against his chest, his eyes closed, and he was listening to the steady beat of Marco’s heart. “Like… Ever, no, I don’t think so.”

“Really?” Jean murmured, moving slightly. Marco ran his fingers against Jean’s shoulder, smiling to himself as Jean shivered and honest to god purred.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “You’re bad influence on me.”

“Oh yeah,” he responded with a lazy yawn. “You better watch out or you’ll turn into a failure like me.” Marco shifted his position, resting his hand flatly on Jean’s side. He could never turn away from the things Jean said; he could never tell when Jean was just poking harmless fun at himself and it always felt to him like Jean actually believed in all the things he said. Like now.

“You’re not a failure, Jean,” he spoke, the tenderness so fragile in his voice that he knew perfectly it would cause an immediate response in Jean. But he couldn’t walk away from the self-loathing that every so often leaked out of Jean, from every broken seam and corner in him. He wanted to tear those holes open until all the hate and loathing came pouring out and then seal them and fill Jean with nothing but happy thoughts.

He would try, at least.

“Whatever,” was the indifferent answer, breathed against Marco’s skin, like anything he had to say meant nothing. “Hey, you wanna order a pizza? I’m starving.” He swept the whole subject away, into his closet that was already bloated with so many skeletons, but Marco wasn’t willing to let go without pressing a little further, not anymore. He’d gotten Jean to open up, little by little, and he was determined to keep going until he learned the blonde inside out, every dusty secret and self-learned shame dragged into the daylight.

“No, I mean it,” he said and turned on his side, causing Jean to slide off his chest onto the bed. He looked at Marco unhappily and tried to hide himself away, against Marco, but the brunette sat up. Jean narrowed his eyes and gave him a menacing look before drawing a pillow over his head.

“Let it go,” he mumbled, swatting Marco’s hand away as he tried to push the pillow off his head.

“No,” Marco refused. “Look, I really mean it. I don’t see a failure when I look at you, I—”

“So what _do_ you see?” Jean agreed to let go of the pillow this time, but he avoided eye contact, examining a spot on Marco’s sheets, scratching it with a fingernail. He felt Marco’s warm hand run along his side and then he lowered himself beside Jean, wrapping his arm around the blonde’s waist. They were face to face now and Jean had nowhere to look and nowhere to hide.

“I see so much potential,” Marco said, a smile forming on his lips. “And I see someone who’s been through things I can’t even imagine and that makes you a little… well, reserved.”

“You’re a regular Dr. Phil, arencha?” Jean mocked, but Marco only laughed, kissing him to keep him silent. “Better tone down the sweet talk or I might just explode.”

“You’re the worst,” Marco snickered, pecking Jean on the lips and on the nose and wherever he could reach, Jean huffing but still pulling him closer until he was once again safely nestled in the crook of Marco’s neck.

“And I know you’re scared,” Marco continued, ignoring Jean’s loud, protesting groaning, his fingers tracing Jean’s backbone gently against his skin. “I get it, I do, I remember you said you’ve never been in love or with anyone, really, but…” He fell silent and Jean felt an ever so familiar spike of panic in his chest, paralysing his lungs and making his palms sweat. He tried to reason the panic away, tried to come up with something snarky to say to cut down this branch of conversation. The last thing he needed was Marco saying something neither of them could take back.

“But you know…” Marco was speaking again and Jean needed air, he needed more space and more room to breathe. “We’re all scared, you know. Everyone’s scared sometimes.”

“And I think you’re so intelligent and there are so many things you could achieve if you wanted to and, and…” Marco bit his lip and his fingers stopped. Jean’s heart was still racing, he felt like they had barely missed a landmine and Marco was so stupidly unaware of it, so happily ignorant about just how close he had been to make Jean run, again, since that was the only thing he was good at. “And when I look at you, I see someone who’s, who’s so _used_ to getting hurt that, that… You don’t believe you could deserve anything better, or, or to _be_ anything better.”

“But you do, Jean, you deserve to be happy, too.” It was horrible. It made Jean’s head spin a hundred miles per hour and he wanted to cry, _again_. Marco’s words were so _honest_ and _sincere_ that it was almost impossible for Jean to argue with them, even though they were all false, so disgustingly false.

He didn’t trust his voice to _not_ betray him, so he kept quiet and let Marco kiss him again and again, and only until he trusted Marco wouldn’t be able to hear anything else in his voice than indifference, he cleared his throat.

“Wow, that was, wow,” he said huskily. “I think I got diabetes or something.” Marco’s laugh came loud and bubbly and he pinched Jean just to make him squirm.

“You’re, you’re horrible,” he exclaimed, almost tears in his eyes. “I hate you, Jean.”

“No you don’t, you obviously _adore_ me,” Jean muttered with a grin. His chest still felt tight, Marco’s words sitting on it heavily and making it hard to draw in a breath, but at least the panic had started to subside and he didn’t feel like clawing his ways out of Marco’s embrace anymore.

“You’re right.” It started out as innocently as anything he ever said. “I do.”

“You do what?” Jean mumbled, breathing in the ever so familiar scent of Marco’s skin. No aftershave this time, just a hint of his deodorant and like every other smell Marco wore, he liked that one too.

Marco was quiet. He was still and quiet and it didn’t escape Jean’s attention.

“What,” he asked flatly. He was pretty sure the guy would give him a heart attack one of these days with all the dramatic silences, confessions and other shit. Marco pulled back to catch Jean’s gaze, and sure enough, all the emotions were painted on him like they always were and Jean couldn’t stand it.

“Please say something or I’m gonna—”

“Jean,” Marco interrupted him, his voice calm but it was bubbling underneath. He slid his hand on Jean’s cheek, his eyes dark and intense. “I think I’m… I think I’m falling in love with you.”

There it was. Just like that Marco set everything on fire, completely blind to the invisible panic in Jean’s eyes, his pupils narrowing. That was until the blonde started shaking his head under his touch, shaking until Marco drew his hand away, confused.

“No, no, no, you don’t even…” Jean stuttered, still staring back into those dark, deep abysses on Marco’s face that were sure to suck the life out of him. “You don’t even know me, you can’t, you can’t…” And he couldn’t finish the sentence, not while watching the confusion growing in Marco, somewhere next to it hurt lurking and tearing through his flesh, sharp and sore. It rode Marco’s features and Jean decided to ignore it, decided to ignore the way Marco shrunk, pulling himself a little further.

“Jean—” His voice was still calm but it was flat now, there was no depth to his words and Jean did the only thing he could. He turned his back to Marco and crawled out of the bed, pulling boxers on hastily and storming out of the room. He didn’t know if he was angry or scared or both, but he wanted to slap Marco. The fucking guy who couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut, his naivety so deep in him he _reeked_ of it.

Jean ran to the bathroom and locked himself in. He leaned forward and held himself, his heartbeat so fast it made his veins throb, like a swarm of ants crawling under his skin. He couldn’t count the times he had locked himself in bathrooms over the years to try and calm himself down, to try and live through the numerous panic attacks he had had as a teenager and growing up. He was on the verge of sinking but he concentrated on his breathing, or more so, on the lack of it. His lungs were under the impression he had just ran a marathon and they refused to let the air in, refused to stop constricting. He rested his hands against the door, his legs shaking under him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, just ride it out, just ride it out…”

He thought about the hurt on Marco’s face. He didn’t mean to, he knew it would make everything so much worse but he couldn’t stop it anymore. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t stop the dread paralysing him, and making him feel like he was about to suffocate; his head held under the surface of the ocean and he was _so close_ to the air that would save him yet so far.

Poor Marco. His first mistake had been to ever convince Jean to stay a little longer. How had it lead to this? Jean couldn’t remember, he couldn’t even remember why he was here, how did he end up here?

“Jean?” Marco was on the other side of the door. Jean ignored him. “Please don’t do this to me. Please talk to me, _please_.” The hurt was evident even in Marco’s voice; it had probably spread in every cell in Marco’s body, and the worst part? It wasn’t the kind of hurt that Jean could apologise for. Marco couldn’t be mad at him, no, it wasn’t that kind of hurt. He’d brought this on himself; Marco did this all to himself. He had warned the brunette, hadn’t he, it wasn’t his responsibility to save the naïve idiot.

It wasn’t.

“Please… Talk to me.” Marco sounded defeated. Exhausted. Confused.

Jean opened his mouth in a scream, and he screamed voicelessly until his lungs screamed in turn for more air.

 

They stayed on their sides of the door for a long time. Marco didn’t try to convince Jean to do anything anymore, he had fallen silent at least fifteen minutes ago. Jean had crumbled on the floor, his knees held tightly against his chest and he was leaning his back on the door, Marco in the same position on the other side. So close yet so far. Jean felt embarrassed and ashamed now more than anything, and he was sure Marco thought he was out of his mind and completely insane. He just stared at the tiles on Marco’s bathroom floor and sat there until he started getting cold and his ass started going numb.

He would have to open the door eventually anyway. With a deep, soundless breath he got up on his shaky legs and opened the door.

Marco stumbled to his feet the second he heard the door handle moving. Jean looked like a cornered animal, his eyes wild and alert, warning Marco not to come any closer.

“Hey,” Marco said carefully. He was wearing nothing except his underwear.

“Hey,” Jean replied. And then they stood in silence for a moment, Marco trying to come up with something disarming to say, and Jean hoping he would just stay quiet and let him go without a scene.

“You alright?” Marco enquired, his tone still careful. Jean hated that, he hated that Marco saw right through him and knew exactly when to start walking on eggshells. It would’ve been so much easier if he had just attacked him right off the bat, forced Jean to attack back and destroy everything. He didn’t want to hash this out with Marco; not now, not ever.

“’m fine,” he said shortly and shrugged. “Look, I gotta go, you gotta go to your lecture and—”

“ _No_ , you are not doing that to me, not now,” Marco shook his head. He sounded much more desperate than he looked, and it ticked Jean off. “You need to talk to me, Jean, you’re not running away, not now.”

“Fuck you.” It was like a reflex and Jean regretted spitting the words out immediately after the last word had flown off his tongue. Marco cringed involuntarily and he drew back like a kid who had just gotten scolded. Jean’s words were like a slap across his face and the confidence he had built up behind the bathroom door came flaking off. Jean didn’t use the opportunity to apologise, even though he hated seeing Marco so vulnerable. He needed to get out of the situation and he was determined to get out of the apartment and away, somewhere where he could lick his wounds alone.

He made it to the bedroom where he frantically gathered his clothes, but Marco was behind him soon enough.

“Jean, _please_ ,” he tried to persuade. “Please don’t do this to me.” He kept his distance, he didn’t try to stop Jean from getting his clothes on. He didn’t try to make Jean look at him, but when the blonde tried to get past him through the door, he blocked the way. It made Jean’s blood boil with anger, and he wanted to shove the guy away, push him until he’d stay out of his way for good.

“Don’t go,” Marco pleaded. “Please don’t go.” The words were trembling on his tongue. The look on Jean’s face was enough to make him shrink into a little ball of hurt and fear, but he didn’t move out of the way. He wouldn’t let Jean run away, not this time.

“Get out of my way.” Jean’s voice was steady, steadier than his shaking hands, and he didn’t know why he was so angry. All he knew was that he would punch the guy in the face if he tried to stop him one more time.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please just speak to me, it’s all I’m asking.” Jean pretended he didn’t hear Marco’s voice cracking on the edges, fading into soft sobs. “Please, I’m _sorry_.” He didn’t even know what he was sorry for, the poor bastard, and Jean fed off the desperation and the pain in him. He leaned closer to Marco, leaned his face close to Marco’s and stared him in the eyes.

“No, Marco, _I’m_ sorry,” he whispered. “I warned you, didn’t I? You should’ve never gotten involved with me.” Marco shook his head.

“No, don’t, don’t say that,” he swallowed. “Last night you said, you—”

“You’re gonna be late from class,” Jean snarled. “You don’t wanna skip yet another do you?” He knew Marco would back off eventually. He knew Marco would give in and never contact him again. He hated himself so much and he had no idea why he was doing this but he was and he couldn’t stop it, and he hated himself so much it made him want to throw up. He couldn’t stand the idea of Marco actually giving a shit about him, he knew it would only lead to disappointment and if he didn’t destroy Marco, Marco would destroy him.

He was despicable.

It didn’t matter.

“Don’t,” Marco whimpered. “Don’t do this, Jean. You don’t have to…” He didn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t even finish the swarming thoughts in his head. He was so close to breaking down, it was only a matter of time. Jean would destroy him. Tear him to pieces, rip him apart. Poor, innocent Marco. He didn’t know the darkness in Jean, the one he was staring straight into the eyes now.

“Marco.” Jean spoke softly, the tone deceiving like freshly fallen snow on black ice. “You don’t love me. You don’t even know me, you don’t know anything.” He swallowed.

“You’re still hung up on that ex of yours, it’s called transference, you’re doing it unconsciously like many people who’re terrified of being alone, who don’t _know_ how to be alone.” A short silence. “You can’t possibly think you’d love someone whom you’ve just met, right? You’re smart, use your brain.”

“It’s not, it’s not…” Marco’s voice was quivering but somehow he managed to get the words out in one piece. “I, I _do_ know you, maybe I don’t know everything about you but I _do_ know something.”

“Look—”

“That’s not fair, that’s not fair,” Marco blurted out, his eyes not completely focused on anything. There was a small but bright flame of confidence burning in him now and he shook his head furiously. “Maybe I don’t know everything but you can’t say I don’t know _anything_ —”

“It doesn’t matter!” Jean shouted, and Marco was forced to take a step back. He was still blocking the doorway, though, and Jean knew it. “Did you hear a fucking word I said, huh?”

“I did,” Marco said tremblingly. “But—”

“It does _not matter_ ,” Jean gritted his teeth together, running his hands exasperatedly through his hair. “I’m not in love with you, Marco. We’ve had fun, yeah, there’s a part of me that likes you but that’s it. I’m not…” He shook his head, growing more and more frustrated by the minute. The silence fell between them, heavy and dark and Jean could almost hear Marco’s frightened heartbeat echoing across the walls. Or maybe it was his, he didn’t know anymore.

“You want kids and you want a perfect life with a perfect boyfriend and a perfect fucking job protecting low-life criminals because you think that somewhere deep inside people are _good_ and you, you want all that and you’re not getting it from me.” He tried to swallow down the tenseness building around him. “I’m a stripper in a disgusting club and I suck cock so I can pay my fucking rent on my lousy fucking apartment that I hate because I have nowhere else to go or to be, I have _no one_ , I don’t even wanna live in this godforsaken city but what choice do I have, huh? You’re ambitious and decent and you think people actually give a shit about each other and _fuck_ , it drives me fucking insane!” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and ran his hands over his face. His lips felt numb.

“I have nothing to offer you,” he mumbled against his palms. “I’m, I take from everyone and never give anything back because it’s all I’ve ever done ‘n been and I don’t know how to be anything else.”

All this time Marco stared at him, just _stared_ , unable to form any objections or anything to say. He stood in place, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, and he watched Jean come apart and undone.

“There’s only one way this can end, and it’s either both of us getting badly hurt or just one of us, so in reality, I’m doing you a favour.” Jean’s hands dropped. His eyes were cast to the ground, his shoulders hunched. “You don’t love me Marco, you _can’t_ love me, no one can. I’m a failure, a sin against all things good in this world. I’m worthless in every sense of the word.”

“You don’t get to tell me who I love or who I don’t,” Marco murmured, and Jean let out a dry, mocking laugh at him.

“Oh fuck off M—”

“ _Shut up_.” And Jean did, completely thrown away by the intensity of Marco’s words. “I’ve been standing here, listening to you throwing all these things in my face. In just a few minutes you managed to use my ex, my, my education and, and the fact I want kids against me. _Really_ , Jean?” Marco’s chin quivered. Jean had raised his gaze and he was looking back at Marco now, the brunette still composed even behind his glistening eyes and trembling hands.

“ _Yes_ , I want kids and _yes_ , I want a nice house and a golden retriever with my boyfriend, eventually, and yes I want to work as a lawyer ‘til I’m old enough to retire and _yes_ , I still love my ex and I always will, no matter who I am with because he’s my best friend and the person in the world that knows me best and nothing will change that.” He took a deep breath that made Jean realise he had held his own.

“And you, _you_ don’t get to tell me who I love or if I’m transferring my feelings from one person to another because that is not _true_ , and you have no right to say those things to me.” Marco stopped to bite back a sob that tried to ruin the whole thing. “You’ve… You have no right to do that to me, I know you’re scared but you don’t _know_ what’s going to happen because _no one_ does. You can’t do this to me just because you _think_ it might end eventually and you can’t say all those things to me like I have no say in this.” The silence that only lasted a fraction of a second made Jean’s ears hum.

“And you know what, Jean?” Jean shook his head, his mind in a trance-like state. “I _am_ in love with you. It’s why I understand why you said all those things, you’re terrified of getting hurt but so am I. I was, I was so scared of you in the beginning yet I wanted to see you again, I wanted to take my chances even though I knew it would, _thought_ it would end badly because sometimes you have to risk everything in order to ever be happy. And here you are, and you can’t say to me that I mean nothing to you because _you_ made me stay. You wanted me to stay, I even skipped a class for you—”

“I’m—”

“ _No_ , I did it because I wanted to, I can make my own decisions but the point is, you wanted me to stay. I’m not letting you run away because I know you really don’t want to. You’re scared and I get it, I really, really do.” Marco walked to Jean, pulling the guy gently in his embrace, drowning his face in the guy’s soft, messy hair. “I know you want to stay, I know you do. So stay.”

“You can’t love me,” Jean whispered thinly. “No one can.”

“I don’t care. You’re not worthless and you’re not a failure and even if you can’t believe in yourself or love yourself, I will.”

Jean was crying again. Somehow it had become a sad little habit for him to cry in front of Marco, and he couldn’t even be ashamed of it as Marco hugged him tighter, whispering all these sweet things to his ear, _almost_ making him believe them.

“You don’t even know me,” he was able to say in between his weak sobs that somehow were strong enough to shake him to his core. He wanted to fight Marco off but at the same time he was terrified of letting go, of Marco letting go.

“I do,” Marco responded, threading his fingers through Jean’s hair ever so gently. “I know that you like art and I know that you’re snarky because you think it’ll make people stay away from you and I know that you’re a stripper only because you think you can’t do anything else, and I also know that there’s a small part of you that likes me.” Jean laughed a teary laugh, and Marco held him even tighter. “And I know that one day it’ll be alright and you’ll see, and there’ll be a day when you won’t hate yourself so much anymore.”

The fondness in Jean’s heart grew without him even realising it. Marco’s arms felt so right, so _perfect_ around him. And he was so sad, so weak yet so glad and so strong there, against Marco’s bare chest, against the heart that beat so fast for him. The darkness had faded, vacated Jean’s body for now, and he was yet again a fragile, terrified little person with so much issues he could have filled a small universe with them.

He cried so long that eventually, when the tears had dried out, he still couldn’t stop shaking and sobbing and holding onto Marco like he would drown if he let go. Maybe he would have, maybe the world was made of forces that would drag Jean under the surface and deeper, deeper, deeper if he didn’t have a lifejacket, a steady land to hang onto. And Marco was exactly that. He accepted Jean as he was; a broken, fucked up little boy who couldn’t deal even with his own shit, let alone someone else’s.

Marco would deal with it for the both of them. He would keep Jean in one piece until the day he would learn to do it on his own. That was what Jean wanted to believe anyway.

 

The only good thing about fighting was the makeup sex that came afterwards, Jean learned. It was rough and loud and the best sex he had ever had, and if any of Marco’s neighbours were at home, they’d have probably gotten more than an earful of it. Afterwards, he was sore and exhausted and probably covered in bruises all over and clinging onto Marco desperately, the brunette still drowning him into the most precious things he had ever heard. He spoke tenderly, so tenderly, the syllables rolling off his tongue so softly like he was almost afraid to speak them for they might break under his breath.

All in all, it was disgustingly sweet, and Jean couldn’t have enjoyed it more than he did.

He went home sometime in the evening, Marco refusing to let go of him as they made out against his front door, almost ending up having sex on the floor of his hall. Somehow he was able to convince Marco he really had to go, if not to change his clothes, then… Well, he didn’t know how to finish the sentence, and then they made out some more, Marco’s mouth so familiar to him by now that just the mere taste of it made his mind run out of control and his cock stray against the zipper of his jeans. He walked home with a semi, even the fresh air unable to weed the arousal out of him.

He had a plan. He hadn’t had a plan earlier, but he had a plan now. The whole thing last night, getting busted and shit, it felt like a bad dream. It helped that Marco hadn’t asked about it, not once, and even if he had tried to, Jean’s mouth on his cock would have silenced his questions pretty fast.

He had a plan. He was going to work, one last time now. He would go there, resign, go home and never degrade himself again. He would do that. He would be broke, more broke than ever before, but he’d manage. He’d end his tenancy and move in with Connie or something.

A horrible, horrible idea, but Connie wouldn’t refuse. Besides, they had a guest room, Jean could crash there as long as he’d find another job. If worst came to worst, he’d crawl back to Erwin and start delivering pizzas again. It didn’t matter, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. He would start next semester with a clean slate, and maybe, maybe even graduate one day.

Yes, he had a plan. The foolish little hope he had in him, it was shining brightly now, and he refused to think of any of the downsides his plan had. Everything Marco had said to him, it was fresh in his mind and against all odds he even believed the guy. Well, maybe not everything, but some of it. But he was tired, tired of self-loathing, tired of nightmares, tired of fearing for his life after every shift at work.

Connie would be so proud of him, he realised. Connie would do anything for him to be able to realise his plan. He made a mental note to call the guy in the morning, to tell him everything.

After a couple of hours fidgeting and nail-biting he left to work. He didn’t even have a shift but he wasn’t going to stay long, just as long it took to resign and get the fuck out of there – for the last time ever. It hit him suddenly. He would never have to go to the club again, he would never have to look any of his regulars in the eyes and _smile_ at them so they would pay him, so they would let him crawl for them. Maybe he would go in as a customer and tell everyone to fuck off and die, and _then_ get out of there.

He added that to his plan.

The place was quiet when he got there, and he made it straight to the backroom. He found a familiar face there, the guy eyeing him suspiciously when he walked in.

“You don’t hafta work tonight,” he grunted, and Jean shook his head.

“Nah, just came to drop in my notice. I’m fucking off this place.” The guy’s eyes widened and he jumped up from the table he had been sitting on.

“Really?” he grinned. “Well I’ll be damned, I—”

“Piss off, I don’t wanna hear it,” Jean interrupted him, but the guy wasn’t bothered. He just shrugged.

“Hey, you hear ‘bout Thomas?”

“No, what?”

“He’s dead.” Jean furrowed his brow in surprise. He had never been too close with the guy, but he hadn’t been half-bad. He wasn’t someone Jean had wished to die, at least.

“What?” he asked with disbelief. The guy shrugged.

“Yeah, they found ‘im a few days ago. Only heard about it today.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently an overdose. Look…” The guy came closer, poking Jean on the chest. He was taller than Jean, and suddenly it felt like he was hovering above him, his face dead serious under all the foundation he’d splattered across it. “The cops came askin’. They gonna be asking you, too, and whatever they ask, you dunno, okay?”

“Why are they asking if it was an overdose?” Jean asked, taking a step back, but the guy grabbed him by the lapels.

“Don’t matter. Whatever they ask, you know _nothing_ , ya hear me?” he spoke softly. “Nothing. Yeah?”

“Whatever, not like I _know_ anything, anyway,” Jean muttered, pushing the guy off. He lifted his finger and pointed at Jean.

“Exactly,” he murmured. “You dunno nothing. Keep it in mind.”

“ _Right_ , I heard ya Nac, mind if I go now?” The way this asshole was eyeballing him gave Jean the chills and the sooner he was out of the place, that much better.

“One more thing,” the guy spoke, resting his fist under his chin. “You might not wanna do that tonight, the boss is pretty pissed to say the least. Cops pokin’ ‘round, yanno.”

“I don’t give a shit, I’m leaving this place.”

“Yeah, but see, Thomas dead means we’re one man short and rookies don’t know how to handle these assholes yet. Wanna push this one night through, hmm?”

“No. I don’t care if this fucking place burns down, I’m… Besides, what the fuck do you care?” Jean knew instantly that he had hit a nerve, something about the way the guy held himself, his eyes flashing quickly.

“I don’t, I’m just a loyal employee.” The smile spread on his thin lips, revealing something menacing behind it. “It looks like it’s gonna be a slow night, what do you care? You need every penny you can squeeze out of ‘em, right?”

“‘Slow night’ and ‘money’ don’t really go well together in a sentence, _yanno_ ,” Jean pointed out and the guy laughed at his derisive tone.

“Your fave’s here, Jeannie, what am I supposed to tell ‘im if you just ditch us all like that?” He made a pouting face and Jean grimaced.

“Tell him I died, got hit by a truck and was torn to pieces.”

“At least suck his dick for a goodbye – oh but dang, I forgot, you got _busted_.” The guy beamed and Jean stared at him with death in his eyes. “How’d ya get out? Blow that cop, too? He was sexy, I woulda.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jean spoke coldly. He didn’t know how much people had already talked, but the fact that they all knew was more than enough. And this guy wasn’t as stupid as he pretended to be and as fast as Jean realised it, he seemed to realise it too.

“Wait,” he murmured. “What’d ya say to the cop?”

“About what?” Jean could play dumb too, although he wasn’t sure if this one would buy it. He’d have to tread carefully if he didn’t want to raise any suspicions, because then he could just kiss his ticket to freedom goodbye. The guy didn’t need to know Jean would name him to save his own skinny ass.

“No, see, this is very convenient in a way, ain’t it? You get busted and now yer here like nothing happened.”

“I’m out on bail, the trial’s in a couple of weeks.” Jean sighed submissively, hoping it’d sound convincing enough. “I’m gonna be charged and everyone’s gonna know and I don’t need that, so I’m quitting. Finding something else.”

“No one’s gonna hire you.”

“Well maybe I’m just finding myself a sugar daddy since I’m pretty enough to do that.” He grinned. It seemed to work as the guy squinted at him, but eventually rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively.

“Psh, good luck with that, I’ve been tryna find a sucker for _years_. Seems rich guys aren’t as dumb or as gay as I hoped they’d be.” He wrinkled his nose unhappily. “They sit on their money like fucking _hawks_ and make you do impossible tricks for just a pat on the head.”

“Doesn’t sound that different from what we’re doing here,” Jean mumbled.

“It used to be different,” the guy mused, tapping his lower lip with his index finger. “They’re more careful now. They treat me like a _prostitute_ , I swear to _god_. I feel like I’m in _Pretty Woman_ but without all the good stuff.”

“So just a regular hoe, huh?” Jean mocked, the ice in the guy’s eyes making his skin crawl.

“Shut up, you’re as much of a hoe as I am, I’m just prettier.”

“Whatever.”

 

Jean didn’t want to admit it, but something about the guy’s words made him feel a little unsure. He knew he needed money, of course he needed money, but the amount he would make in one night or even a week did nothing to change his situation. He could buy a few packs of cigarettes and then die of lung cancer a little earlier. It wouldn’t be good enough, not even with the sad pay-off he might or might not get. The downside of not signing his name on anything was that he had given up all his rights as an employee. He could leave at a day’s notice but it meant that if he pissed the bosses off, he wasn’t getting shit from those greedy little assholes that made the club go ‘round.

His plan all spread out in front of him, he went through it again. He was still going to quit his job, but suddenly the idea of running out of money wasn’t so intriguing to him. He was weak, he couldn’t help it, but neither did he try to deny it. There was a hundred and one different ways to make money, but nothing like this, nothing as quick, illegal and free of taxes. He didn’t say easy although it had gotten easier with time, and he didn’t even think about it anymore. All he did he did for money, it was just a job. He didn’t lose sleep over it and he definitely didn’t get traumatized by it. The shame he once felt had long fallen off of him.

Maybe that was why this didn’t feel like a completely horrible idea. It wasn’t like he had never considered it; the pathetic fucks whose cocks he sucked were just as pathetic no matter which way they were laid out. They were too wimpy to hurt a fly even if it took a shit on them; they were no threat to him. He would need to fuck ten of those sad, fat losers for a hundred, shit, maybe even two hundred per face and he’d be well off to retirement. Or not, but he wouldn’t have to end his tenancy just yet; he could live off of two grand handsomely for some time. Maybe even pay back to Marco and feel a little less like a burden.

Back when he had first started this job he had still had some pride, some self-respect left. That was a long time ago and now he really didn’t think there even existed a low which he wasn’t ready to sink to if you just piled up enough bills in his hand. Not after he had been degraded and stripped off of his humanity night after night after night, and not after he had realised that it didn’t matter if he was a guy or a girl; the people he met would’ve probably fucked a mule if it stayed still long enough and wore a pretty dress. He could use it to his advantage, he had gotten enough phone numbers stuffed down his thong, once even in his mouth that he could find ten guys easily. He had saved them in case he ever needed someone to blackmail, but that was too much of a hassle so he dropped the thought.

It was one of his last resort go-to ideas whenever he felt especially shitty about being insufferably poor. He had toyed with it ever since it had become an option; ever since he had realised he had such an option. If he was ready to do everything else, why not this? For so long he had an answer to the question but it didn’t make that much of a difference anymore. He was going to quit, leave this era of his life behind and start again. He’d burn himself and rise from the ashes, and in practice that meant he would move to the other side of the town, change his phone number and make sure anyone he didn’t want finding him wouldn’t find him. He could do this one thing, hit the all-time low and then it’d be over. He would never have to look back again; no one would ever know. He’d pick guys with a ring on their finger; guys with something to lose; guys who were sure to never look him in the eye if they happened to walk past him on the street.

He thought the whole thing through in one night. Somehow it just happened; he got home without handing in his notice and paced his apartment deep in his storming thoughts, not tired enough to sleep but too tired to fold all the dried laundry. Instead he sunk in his own head and went through all the possibilities over and over again until it was morning and he realised he hadn’t had a wink of sleep. Marco had sent him a number of texts but he couldn’t read them. He couldn’t even think about the guy right now, it only made him feel like shit and he was afraid talking to the guy would make him backpedal on this, and he couldn’t do that, not anymore. Marco and Connie had something in common: they had the ability to see right through him even when he tried his best to act like there was nothing to see. It had always pissed him off because self-loathing and self-pitying was only fun when there was no one there to try and rationalise him through his slump. If he felt like shit, he wanted to cral under his bed and mope for days rather than listen to Connie’s speeches about whatever agenda he was on about trying to make him feel better. He would put up with Marco’s encouragements and sweet words later.

He liked Marco, that was a fact. He liked Marco enough to want to make sure the poor bastard would never have to know about half the shit Jean had done in his life. And that was why Jean decided to do all this. To quit his job, to start afresh. Maybe Marco wouldn’t be the solution to all his problems, but he was at least a start. He was the small push Jean needed to start moving forward. After this he could look the brunette in the eyes and never feel like a disgusting waste of space again. Hopefully.

So he ignored Marco as best as he could and started working on his plan.

 

The whole thing was easy, finding the guys the easiest part. Prostituting yourself was so very dramatic in movies and television shows with pimps and brothels and someone who beat you up and then raped you, maybe strangled you to death. It was nowhere near like that in reality, most of the guys just wanted to fuck someone without consequences or questions asked, willing to pay money for both of those things.

Jean refused to bring the guys to his own apartment so he got a motel room, at the assholes’ expense obviously and brought them there. Most of them knew what they were getting into, not first-timers and they showed their ID’s straight away without Jean even having to ask. They were men with families and jobs; they were men with socially acceptable backgrounds and they were out of towners, regulars who came to the city because they knew no one knew them there.

What disgusted Jean most wasn’t the fact that they paid good money to fuck him but the fact that they had enough money in the world to take care of themselves and their kids, wives, what have yous, and this is how they chose to spend it. Withdrawing cash from secret bank accounts their families knew nothing of, using their work or hobbies or friends as an excuse to stay out late, to travel out of town. They stepped from a completely different universe into Jean’s and for an hour or so their worlds collided and Jean couldn’t understand why anyone with all of that would take the chance of putting it under the guillotine to see whether the blade would fall or not. They risked their entire lives for a mere _fuck_ , because right now that’s all that Jean was.

Some of them didn’t want him to enjoy it, at all. They got mad if he accidentally got hard or if he as much as made a sound. He was an object they used for their own amusement and they couldn’t have objects having fun.

Some of them wanted it to be over as quickly as possible while the others wanted it to last for every miserable cent they had paid for.

Some of them cried, some of them confessed their darkest secrets to him while they lied on top of him, some of them got off at Jean watching them wanking themselves.

Some of them were in it for the intimacy, their bodies crawling close to Jean’s like he wouldn’t notice the way they clung to him.

Marco was busy most of the week, his free time packed into weekends when he tried to do all the things he didn’t have time for during weekdays. For the whole week Jean didn’t respond to his messages, but Marco was way more persistent than that. Jean didn’t read any of his texts, not yet he told himself, not even after he’d gotten home and thrown up for half an hour, trying to get the taste of jizz out of his mouth. It wasn’t like before, somehow it clung to his saliva and made him gag even hours after.

It was no big deal though. He let his mind shut off and wander and it was over faster than he anticipated.

He could deal with the consequences. He didn’t hate himself more than normally, he didn’t have to scrub off his skin to forget their hands holding onto his skin. Afterwards he sat in his apartment and stared at the money on the table, stared at it and realised he should’ve done this before. In fact, he should’ve skipped the stripping part and just plain fuck them from day one. It paid much more and he could deal with the soreness that only lasted for a day or so. He could deal with all that as long as he didn’t think. For as long as he could keep Marco at the other side of the phone and as long as Marco didn’t try to get a hold of him too eagerly, he could deal with it. He refused to feel bad about ignoring Marco, turning his phone off whenever he was done with a customer because he needed a break from the world. He would read all the messages and respond to all of them once this was all over. He had four guys in a week, he figured five or six more if he’d push it and then he’d stop. A week more and he’d be done for good.

After the first week of ignoring Marco he had a panic attack in the safety of his own apartment and he realised he couldn’t afford a total breakdown, not right now, so he turned his phone on to call Ymir. He just needed someone to keep him above the surface for now, and despite being reluctant, she was behind his door with a bag of weed in an hour. Ymir never judged him. She didn’t say a word when Jean expertly rolled a joint for them and lit it up. The taste was bittersweet and familiar, like an old friend he hadn’t seen in a long time but whose company was always welcome. Ymir just took it from him when he passed the joint, and she dragged in a long breath and let her eyes slid closed when the smoke filled her lungs. After a few seconds she blew it out lazily, throwing her feet on the table and sinking deeper into the couch.

“How’s Christa?” Jean spoke after the silence that had stretched over their unsaid thoughts started to feel stuffy.

“Oh, you know,” Ymir waved her hand around aimlessly before dropping it back in her lap. “She’s pissed you haven’t called her back.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“That’s what I said but you know how it goes,” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. “She’s mad about the pot, too.”

“Oh come on,” Jean huffed. “You told her?”

“Look, I _live_ with her, she’s got eyes all over the walls, dude,” Ymir snapped back. “She almost killed me in the spot when she found out I was coming here. Wants to know why you’re smoking again.”

“Gimme a break Ymir, I called you ‘cause I knew you wouldn’t—”

“Yeah yeah, I know, ‘m sorry.” She raised her hands up and shook her head compliantly. “You can’t keep secrets from her. Sorry, man.” Jean rubbed his fingers along the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Okay, I guess I’ll call her as soon as possible.”

“Please do, she’s driving me nuts because she worries ‘bout you so much,” Ymir spoke and kept silent for a moment. Then she snorted with laughter. “Me, I know you too well. As long as you keep complaining how you’re gonna blow your brains out I know you won’t.”

“Is that so?” Jean rolled his eyes and stretched his legs on the couch, Ymir pushing them away as he tried to straighten them in her lap. He wrinkled his nose, but drew them back.

“Yeah, the second you disappear for another three months again is when I start to worry.” She smirked. “But you’re a pussy so I wouldn’t worry too much even then.” Jean tried to aim a loose kick at her head, but the weed made him sluggish and she dodged it easily, laughing at his pathetic attempt.

“Oh fuck off,” he grumbled. “I’d say eat me but I’m afraid you just might if I’m a pussy, you fucking lesbian.”

“Hey don’t turn it down before you try it,” she stuck her tongue out in between her middle and index fingers and wiggled it around obscenely. Jean snorted.

“I _did_ try it, had no idea what to do with the thing except stick my fingers in. ‘t was gross.”

“Oh my god, please save me from the details, I can practically _hear_ all the girls in a ten mile radius turning raging gay after that comment,” Ymir moaned theatrically, rolling her eyes.

“I’m gay too, in case you forgot.” He tried to kick again and this time managed to poke her on the cheek with his toes. “I’m allowed to say that shit.”

“Yeah, that’s what all gay guys think. Like you can’t be a sexist pig if you only like cock.” Ymir grabbed his foot mid-air and pushed it away. “Didn’t your mama teach you any manners on how to treat the ladies?” Jean grimaced.

“I don’t think she finds eating pussy as ‘good manners’ but then again, I’m sure she’d prefer me that way.” Ymir scoffed at him, loudly, to which he responded with a wide, self-satisfied smirk. She eyed him for a moment, her face set on an annoyed pout, which only made him smirk wider. She hummed, raising an eyebrow.

“How’s it going with the whatshisface, mister freckles?” That swiped the grin away and Ymir raised her eyebrows even higher, chuckling under her breath.

“There’s nothing going on so yeah, it’s going well,” he mumbled and before he could roll off the couch to hide the embarrassment that was now creeping on his face, Ymir had already spotted it.

“ _Right_ , nothing going on, eh? Why you blushing, then?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god, it’s serious?” She sounded surprised and Jean denied himself the opportunity to feel insulted by her comment. He sat on the floor to roll another joint, keeping his back to Ymir so his face wouldn’t give out anything to her. “Come on, tell me, I’m just _dying_ to know.” He grunted but didn’t say anything.

“Fine, be like that, but y’know why we get along so well, Jean?”

“Because we both hate everything and everyone?” he mumbled. Ymir let out a booming laugh, reaching out to give a slap over Jean’s shoulder. He grunted again and looked at her over his shoulder. He lifted the still unrolled joint up. “You want me to mess this up?”

“Sorry,” she grinned. “But you’re right, kinda, but also because you and I, we’re alike. We know what’s what and it’s not easy to make us care about stuff we don’t wanna care about.”

“That’s deep,” he hummed and she snorted.

“I’m serious here, Jean.”

“Nah, you’re just high.”

“Well, yeah, but I mean,” she stopped mid-sentence to think, her brow furrowing and her lips pursing which made her look like she was extremely angry or extremely confused. “We don’t do the whole love bullshit, you know?” Jean rolled his eyes, huffing silently.

“You have a girlfriend, I don’t think you can say that.”

“I know, but you remember what a difficult road we had to go down to get here?” Jean’s hands stopped moving and he just stared at them for a while, Ymir’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. “You really need to dye your hair, Jean, it looks nasty, like half of it is just root growth.” And then she went back into the good ol’ Ymir mode and he scoffed.

“Feel free to do it if it bothers you that much.”

“Oh I will, can I? You have any hair dye? Hey, I know, let’s make you a platinum blonde, yes, that’s a great idea, please let me do that.” She jumped off the sofa next to Jean, bumping into him and he sighed exasperatedly.

“You’re _not_ making me a platinum blonde, I’d look like a fucking douche.” He finished rolling the joint and she yanked it from him, pushing it between her lips.

“Oo, you made a fat one, sweet.” He snatched the lighter from the sofa and flicked it a few times before it caught a flame, and she leaned to him, holding the tip to the heat. When she was satisfied with the first drag out of it, he nudged Jean on the shoulder. “Anyway, as I was saying, the thing me and Christa have, you can’t really compare it to any… Well, other people, you know.”

“But you do love her, don’t you?” Jean questioned and watched Ymir blow smoke out, coughing a bit. Then she held the joint out for him.

“’Course I do, how dare you even ask,” she chuckled, her voice hoarse from the smoke. She felt her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. “But she’s also my best fucking friend. She can make me laugh like crazy and then seconds later she can make me come so hard I almost pass out.”

“Eugh,” Jean uttered and almost choked on laughter when Ymir shoved him.

“Hey, I listened to your stories about the adventures with mister horse-cock, so you better keep your disgust to yourself.”

“That was _one thing_ I told you about him and it was a _long_ time ago,” Jean protested and got shoved again. “Sorry, I’m sorry, keep going.”

“Yeah, so. I love her, obviously, but at this point I just know her so well and she knows me so well that there’s nothing that could ever make me fall out of love with her. Nothing. I know I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with her if she just wants to spend hers with me.” She quietened down, staring somewhere into the distance in front of her. Jean coughed.

“Am I allowed to mock you for being so sappy?”

“No, or I’m gonna dye your hair blue when you sleep,” she snarled.

“It’s just, you know, you never talk about her like that. It’s weird hearing you be all lovey-dovey, even if you _are_ baked.” Before Ymir could smack him again for being annoying, he leaned away and raised his index finger in front of him. “ _But_. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Just curious where all this is coming from.” She stopped at her tracks like she wasn’t quite sure herself, until she seemed to remember, her eyes lighting up.

“Right, yeah, it was the whole thing with, yadda yadda, why we’re so alike. You know, Jean, I never thought I’d see the day when you fall for someone.”

“And you won’t since that hasn’t happened and never will.” He scratched his head as an excuse to not look at her, to hide his face behind his arm because he wasn’t so sure if he believed himself anymore.

“Oh please, if he was just a friend you would’ve never asked Christa to go to a fucking charity event with him. You don’t care about people _that_ much.”

“Maybe he’s just a really good friend, huh?”

“I don’t think so. Besides, Christa told he kept talking about you.” She grinned at his baffled expression. “I don’t know _how_ , but you sure do make good impressions on people.”

“What, uh, what’d he say? About me.” He couldn’t contain his curiosity and he knew perfectly well Ymir got off on that, but it was too late anyway to try and play it cool. Ymir shrugged nonchalantly because she knew just how crazy it would drive Jean.

“Oh you know, just what a nice guy you are for making this _huge_ favour for him and what a great guy you are and what nice friends you have and how _fascinating_ he finds you. And don’t think that isn’t exactly how he phrased it, too.”

“Really?” It was no secret anymore just how much Marco adored him, but it scared him and excited him all at the same time, and he didn’t know if he liked it or if he absolutely hated it. “Oh.” Ymir tilted her head to the side and blinked slowly.

“Yeah, he’s got the hots for you alright.” She smiled lazily like she had just remembered something funny. “Doesn’t explain that weird fight with his parents, though, he mention about it?”

“He doesn’t remember anything ‘bout the night, what fight?” And then it sunk in all the way and he squinted. “Wait, his parents? What?”

“I dunno any details but Christa said something weird went down, and that’s why she dragged him out of there.” She shrugged and let out a deep sigh, stretching her arms above her head. “Maybe they got mad at him for being so drunk or something.”

“Well yeah, he doesn’t drink, ever, and I still can’t figure out how the fuck that happened.”

“Hey, I know you blamed Christa for it, but she had nothing to do with it. Your little prince charming did it all by himself with no help from Christa whatsoever.”

“Doesn’t sound like him.”

“Well I can’t help with that, one more reason for you to call her ASAP,” Ymir pointed out and got up, shaking her numb legs. Then she turned to Jean and clapped her hands excitedly. “C’mon, I’m gonna dye your hair now.”

 

He liked having Ymir around. Even when the hair bleach she very generously slopped on his head burned his scalp and the smell almost made his eyes water, he rather had all that and Ymir than no Ymir at all. He blamed it on the weed because admitting that sometimes he did need people around wasn’t like him, and he didn’t like to make himself vulnerable like that. Ymir hit the point of her high where she just kept talking regardless whether anyone listened, and it helped Jean to keep his mind off of things that he really should be thinking about. In the end he was back to blonde – his undercut still dark sand-coloured – and high enough to just sit in one place and stare at a wall and be perfectly content like that. They sat huddled together on the couch, snickering at some stupid joke Ymir had told and ended up ordering three pizzas with six toppings on each of them.

Jean didn’t need to tell Ymir anything, not how much he appreciated her or how much it meant to him that she was there. He didn’t need to give any reasons because Ymir didn’t care about details. Sometimes she had the tendency to be a little insensitive and more than a little impassive, but sometimes that was exactly what Jean needed. When she fell asleep cuddling an empty pizza box, Jean couldn’t stop himself anymore. He read all the messages Marco had sent, and he read them more than once, more than twice, and he found one message from Connie he hadn’t noticed.

_Your phone was off, call me when you have the time.  
_ at 4.31 pm

One more week he told himself.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I won't care for you  
> Like I'm really supposed to  
> There are things I'll do  
> That could really hurt you
> 
> (Mew - 156)
> 
> //
> 
> I'll be there as soon as I can  
> But I'm busy mending broken  
> Pieces of the life I had before  
> Before you
> 
> (Muse - Unintended)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first things first: holy shit the amount of new readers this got after last chapter, where did you all come from?! I am so, so happy you're reading this, and I am SO SORRY it took me two months. This chapter was the most difficult one so far and I have been working on it for DAYS AND DAYS and I can't even take a look at it anymore without cringing. I hope you won't feel that way, though, I am anxious and nervous as hell posting this but I HOPE YOU LIKE IT. I HOPE THAT MORE THAN ANYTHING. Your comments, your kudos, your bookmarks, they are what keep me going. I love each and every one of you for giving this fic a chance.
> 
> My head is empty, I had a million things I wanted to say but I can't remember any of them. You can find my tumblr [here](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com), feel free to message me anytime about anything, I love getting messages.
> 
> My amazing, incredible [beta](http://doyouqueue.tumblr.com) fixed all the horrible typos and other weird shit there, I have no idea what I would've done with this without her. Go give her a lotta love, yeah? She deserves every bit of it even though she's merciless and told me I can't use the word "frowny". If there's any weirdness it's because I've already had to read this about 20 times and I couldn't anymore. I fixed what I fixed and you can practically see I got super fucking lazy at some point and just said fuck it, this has got to do (I'm sorry). This is the longest chapter now, over 15k+ words. I'm so relieved it's done. Lemme know what you think!!
> 
> Oh also one more thing: If there's anything you want me to see in tumblr, I track the tag **#dollyb0y**.

Ymir left him enough weed to roll a joint or two. He promised her all kinds of things he knew he wasn’t going to do. Maybe she knew it too, but she didn’t want to look too deep in the things Jean said and did not say. Maybe she figured he needed to make his own mistakes as many times as it took him to learn to not make them anymore.

One more week he told himself.

What he hadn’t taken into account though was the fact that time seemed to move slower the closer to the end he was. Three days in and he felt like time was moving backwards, flipping him off as it passed by. One guy in three days and then, fourth day in, he couldn’t make it out of bed. He turned his phone off and slept, only to end up spending the entire night awake, biting his nails and sitting in the darkness. He was haunted by things he had no control over, haunted by his own thoughts, imagination, the walls around him whispering to him. Come morning, he went back to sleep only he couldn’t sleep, not really, so he curled up under the blanket and imagined what life would be like had he made different choices in the past.

They called him from work. He didn’t pick up.

They called him from the police department. He didn’t pick up.

The strings he thought he was holding so tightly in his hands were all escaping through his fingers no matter how hard he tried to keep them together. In a few days he had sunk so deep, that he couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. It would’ve been easier to let everything go to shit, because even when he tried, he _knew_ he was bound to ruin everything. His rent was three weeks due. The things he was supposed to do and the things he wasn’t supposed to do drained him empty and left him gasping for air against the door of his apartment whenever he tried to leave. Simple things like going to the store to buy food to keep himself from starving. He’d rather starve.

All he needed was a little more money.

A little more.

Then he would be done, finished. Then, _then_ he could make things right for a while.

And then, sixth day in, by some miraculous force he was able to make it out of his apartment and he found himself outside the ever so familiar strip club. It wasn’t part of his plan if he even had one anymore, but this time, _this time_ he’d tell them he was quitting. He’d quit. All he needed from them was closure, to tie one of the loose ends hanging over him so he could say he had done something. He wouldn’t give them explanations; he wouldn’t give them anything except maybe an extended middle finger if they were to protest. He was done here, done with the people and done with the place.

He stood outside the place for fifteen minutes before he could go inside. He smoked three cigarettes while gathering his courage, staring at the doors a good distance away, staring at them as if he expected someone to come out and tell him it was okay to go in now, that it was okay to do what he was going to do. No one came, of course, no one even knew he was here. He crushed the last cigarette under the heel of his shoe a little more aggressively than he needed to and fought back the want to light yet another one to stall a little longer.

Everything looked exactly the same when he had been here the last time. He was half expecting, half hoping for something to be different and not so familiar. It wasn’t exactly nostalgia that hit him when he saw the faces of the guys he had stared down at for years, but it was something that made him choke a little, made his chest ache a little. Maybe it was disgust, maybe it was the grim realisation of how much time he had wasted there, only to end up with nothing more to show for it than his mind a little more fucked up. If there ever were a time when he wished he had taken a few different paths down the road, maybe not always taken the easy way out, this was the time.

He wouldn’t miss it, hell no, but somewhere on the sticky floors and the sweaty hands he had tolerated for too long he had lost a piece of himself. He hadn’t been quite so broken, quite so fractured when he had walked in the first time. He had still held his head up high, his pride too thick to be pierced by their gazes or their words. He hadn’t tried to hide in the shadows just to be left alone, mostly because he loved the attention he got. He loved being in the middle of it all and not only did he love it, he _needed_ it. As long as someone saw him, he existed. As long as someone wanted him, he was someone. One of his worst fears had always been that he’d end up being a nobody, forgotten well before he was dead, sitting alone somewhere with nothing and no one but an endless amount of time to think about all the things he could have been.

Now he was just tired; tired of the attention, tired of acting like he ever could be anybody. No, he was _exhausted_. His pride had worn thin while his skin had grown thicker and everything he had to offer could be bought with enough money. Not that he had much to offer anyway. And he knew this wasn’t what he wanted to be or _who_ he wanted to be, even if he was going to be a nobody, he’d rather be a nobody on his own choice, on his own terms. He was still dependant on people he didn’t want to be dependent on, he was still in a position to be pushed around by people he despised. He didn’t really give a shit about what people thought of him or whether they respected him or not, because he could live with being treated like shit, it didn’t bother him anymore, but he couldn’t live with the constant self-loathing anymore. It was tiring and gradually getting old.

Before the thoughts almost sent him back outside and straight home, he told himself it was almost over. He could do this, he had come this far.

One thing at a time.

Stiffly, he walked through the place, the air humid and thick, suffocating even. Funny how he had never noticed it before. It smelled like desperation and humiliation; it smelled like all the things he had given up to be this pathetic, shallow version of who he had used to be. It made him sick, the people made him sick, every step forward into the place made him sick. It left a bad taste at the back of his throat that made him want to gag, to claw it out of his mouth. It was in the air and with every breath he took he tasted it more profoundly.

One step at a time.

The office was upstairs. Jean had been there only maybe once before, but he couldn’t remember it clearly. The workers had no business or place to be there; their place was downstairs, making sure the money was flowing steadily while the guys upstairs counted it. The office was a small, dim place, a thin, tall guy sitting behind a desk, his eyes bloodshot and his chin covered in stubble. He watched Jean from behind droopy lids as he walked through the door. He was no different from any of the men below them sitting on their asses and wishing the world outside away with every dollar thrown, even if just for an hour. No, there was one difference: when he saw Jean, there was no change in his face, in the apathetic expression that probably could kill a man of boredom if he stared into those eyes long enough. Jean felt disgusted by the sudden sting of pity in his chest. Even after so many years he couldn’t help but feel downright bad for these people every now and then. This was what he had been so afraid of? The man seemed like a dead body stuck in upright position, his skin pasty and greyish.

He didn’t even recognise Jean’s face. He didn’t as much as blink his eye when Jean told him he was quitting. His voice shook unnecessarily but the guy didn’t care. He probably didn’t care about much else, either.

“Come back when you can’t find anything else”, he said with indifference, his lips barely moving over his teeth. Then he told Jean to close the door behind him. Then, for all Jean cared, he probably blew his sad, little brains all over the walls. He didn’t, Jean knew that, but he imagined so anyway.

He was done here. For good.

It wasn’t much of a victory, but it was something.

Downstairs he had to stop to breathe, to drink in the thick air. He didn’t mind the heaviness in his lungs; he would never take another breath in here, not even if he was forced to sell his other kidney to get by. And then he got a sudden urge to call Connie just to hear the delight in his voice, to hear Connie tell him he had made the right choice, but it was late and Jean didn’t want to disturb him.

Instead he struck up a conversation with someone on the bar, someone who couldn’t hide the looks he gave when Jean slid beside him, wearing his most seductive face. Maybe there weren’t many things in which Jean was good at, but this... This he could do with his hands tied behind his back. It was something he realised when he followed the guy’s train of thought, ever so visible in his eyes, in his face. It wasn’t like Jean meant to do this, but it was too easy. It was painless enough to make a few dollars and then some, and he had the upper hand, of course he had. All he had to do was drop a few lines to make them fall to their knees and then eat from his hand like tame circus animals. Easy and effortless, the guy wouldn’t even know what hit him. When Jean purred in the guy’s ear, there were the few, frozen seconds before the guy reacted, and for a moment Jean was sure he was going to get busted again by another cop. But he didn’t, and when the guy offered him a drink, he didn’t say no. And when the guy suggested they leave the place together, he didn’t say no. He kept his hands in his pockets, squeezing the jack-knife tightly against his palm, just in case.

Afterwards he gave the guy his number. The number he would change after he was done with all of this.

He paid for Jean’s cab, that was a first.

 

Some days were better than others. Some days he managed to get out of his bed with only minor resistance from his body and mind. He would’ve ignored the call like he always did, no guilt over it whatsoever, but after the third time Connie wouldn’t take the hint, and Jean caved. He set the sad little bowl of noodles on the table with a sigh. He wasn’t sure why he kept buying those, he hated noodles; the taste, the texture, the fact that they came with a reminder that there had been a time he hadn’t had money to buy anything else than the cheapest stuff he could find.

Connie was determined to make him pick up, Jean could tell, so holding his breath, he answered the call, keeping the phone a safe distance from his ear in case Connie was going to yell at him. He wasn’t completely wrong; half a word out and Connie was almost coming through the lines.

“ _Finally_ , for god’s sake, I’ve been sitting here for at least _ten minutes_ —”

“Calm down, I picked up now, didn’t I?” Connie huffed, loudly, and Jean could hear the way he gritted his teeth, trying not to explode all over his fancy furniture. If he had dared, he would’ve laughed at the mental image.

“Fine. What’s up? You’ve been busy?” And then he endeavoured to be calm like Jean’s indifference didn’t affect him _at all_. It did, it annoyed him so much, and Jean knew it. But he wasn’t in the mood to fight about it right now, so he ignored it.

“You know,” he spoke easily, stirring the noodles with his fork absent-mindedly.

“Not really, but I’ll take it,” Connie mumbled. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Dunno.” Short, simple answers, infuriatingly so. Connie pretended it didn’t bother him. He knew Jean wasn’t big on talking but it still managed to irritate him, and even if he had poked Jean with sticks he wouldn’t have gotten longer answers. He sighed.

“Okay look, are you busy tomorrow? Wanna meet for lunch or something? I have a few hours off work for reasons you don’t care about—”

“You know me so well, Con,” Jean snorted.

“—and I was thinking if you’d like to meet up. I hate talking on the phone.”

“Eh,” Jean answered. He changed the phone on his other ear and debated for a moment. “Sure I guess. If you won’t bark at me for not calling you back.”

“What if I say the lunch’s on me?” There was a hint of smile in Connie’s voice. He knew what strings to pull and Jean rolled his eyes, not in the mood to go through the whole ‘I can’t let you do that’ routine. Free lunch was the best lunch there was.

“You get two minutes and then you can never mention it again.”

“Deal. See you at noon in downtown?”

“If I’m awake.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Fine, noon it is.”

 

He was half an hour late, the absolute morning person he was not, but Connie was patient, more so than usual. He seemed to be in a chipper mood, his face practically glowing in time with the nice spring sun, exploding into a smile the second he spotted Jean. He waved at the guy and received a slight eye-roll and a lazy nod as an answer. Connie could tell from the distance the guy had probably crawled out of his bed about ten minutes earlier, so he saved his remarks about Jean’s bedhead for later.

“One word about how lovely the weather is and I’m turning around,” were his first words when he was at a talking distance. He threw his unfinished cigarette on the ground and crushed it with the tip of his shoe. Connie grimaced but didn’t say anything.

“Well someone’s a bit grumpy. I wasn’t gonna say anything about the weather, though,” he remarked, but Jean didn’t look quite convinced. He wrinkled his nose like an annoyed kid, which Connie found hilarious. “Nice to see you too, by the way, glad to see you’re still alive and in one piece. It’s hard to know these days when you don’t _pick up your goddamn phone_.”

“That’s 30 seconds, you got a minute and a half still,” Jean said, shoving his hands in his pockets and frowning as Connie rolled his eyes at him with an amused scoff.

“That was hardly 30 seconds but whatever,” the guy responded and shrugged it off. “Your face looks better than last time, by the way, so that’s definitely new.”

“What?” And then Connie made a gesture towards his eye and Jean nodded. “Right. Yeah, no, haven’t gotten beaten up lately.” For a second Connie looked worried, like he just might say something serious and real, so Jean flashed him his best grin.

“So what’s new with you, then?” he asked quickly.

“I still got a minute and a half, remember?” Connie joked, shoving the other guy on the shoulder gently, earning a grumbled huff out of him.

“I figured you might wanna save those precious seconds, y’know. Sprinkle them around in the conversations like tiny little punches in my face.”

“That’s actually a good idea,” Connie agreed and chuckled when Jean grumbled again, trying to push his hands elbow deep in his pockets. Connie decided they both needed food before they could have any real conversations so he didn’t say much more, especially not how much Jean reminded him of a little kid. They walked down the street in silence, trying not to bump into busy people rushing to catch their buses and their lunches with other busy people with full schedules and appointments and the like. They didn’t even have to contemplate where they were going, because whenever they ate together – seldom these days, admittedly – they always went to the same place. Routine and regular hangouts were their thing. There was a tiny little Thai place not far from the busiest part of the city centre, but it was rather hard to find for anyone who didn’t know it existed. It probably survived merely through word of mouth and was always packed during lunchtime. The good thing was that there were rarely any families at this hour which meant no kids; no noisy, screaming, disgusting messy kids; and for that Jean was ready to walk a little further and to wait for the food a little longer. They were able to find a vacant table in the corner, throwing their jackets on the backs of their chairs and then piling their plates full from the all you can eat buffet.

Neither of them felt like ruining the perfectly delicious food by whining about meaningless stuff, so they let whatever might have been bothering them rest, for now. They picked the conversation up from Connie’s work and moved all the way to the latest gossip he had heard about people Jean vaguely knew. It wasn’t interesting but it kept the mood light and made Jean laugh, for the first time in what felt like forever. Maybe not forever, but long enough. It was nice.

Dessert meant that Jean drank two cups of black coffee, life slowly returning into his tired bones, and watched Connie get his sugar high with ice-cream and then ramble on endlessly, waving his spoon around as his face fell into a frustrated frown at something someone had or had not said. Jean tried to listen, he really did, but half of the things Connie said either meant nothing to him or he couldn’t make sense of them because of how fast Connie was speaking, so he put his brain on autopilot and nodded every time Connie stopped to breathe, gazing somewhere into the distance over Connie’s shoulder.

He wondered what Marco was like when he ate too much sugar and whether his tolerance was higher than Connie’s because he probably ate a lot of it.

For a second his mind drifted elsewhere, and he realised that Connie was waiting for him to reply, so he nodded. When the guy didn’t continue his meandering story, Jean worried he had screwed up again by not listening. But it turned out Connie was just thinking really hard, his eyes squinted like he was trying to see into another dimension or something. Then he suddenly relaxed and almost startled Jean with the loud noise he let out. Maybe it was a bundle of words, he couldn’t tell.

“You free this weekend?” he then asked, the words clear this time. He scooped the last, now melted ice-cream onto his spoon and sucked on it happily.

“Might or might not be, I dunno.”

“We’re having a small get-together, nothing special, but it’d be great if you could come,” Connie babbled with the spoon in his mouth. Jean sipped the last of his coffee and hummed.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I promised Sasha I wouldn’t tell,” Connie said with a straight face, blinking a few times. The spoon was still hanging in his mouth like a toddler with a pacifier, and Jean leaned over the table, resting his chin on his palm.

“What is it Connie?” he narrowed his eyes in an attempt to look intimidating. “You know I hate not knowing.” Connie shook his head rapidly and finally put the spoon down with a clink.

“Nope.”

“Come on, I won’t tell her you told me.” Jean changed tactics and coaxed, tilting his head to the side. He smiled reassuringly, but Connie shook his head again.

“I can’t, I promised.”

“But if I _guess_ —”

“You could try, but you really suck at guessing.”

“Well let’s see,” Jean mused, leaning back on his chair. “You already proposed to her, so… You bought a house?”

“Not bad,” Connie grinned and then went serious again. “But no. Besides, I wouldn’t say even if you guessed right.”

“What’s the point then?” Jean squinted at him, and Connie just shrugged lazily.

“To mess with you.”

“You got her preggers or something?” Jean grimaced. “That’s what the world needs, little Connie juniors running around and screaming like crazy.”

“They don’t actually run around for the first year or so, you know.” Connie rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “Also _preggers_?”

“Whatever, you know what I meant,” Jean waved his hand dismissively and ignored the bored glare Connie gave him. “And maybe they don’t run or move or whatever, but they scream. And smell. And oh _god_ , she’s pregnant isn’t she?”

“Practice _that_ face and then when she tells you, just show it to her, I wanna see what happens,” Connie mumbled somewhat jadedly.

“Wait,” Jean’s eyes widened as the information slowly sunk in. He squinted at Connie and when the guy didn’t burst out in laughter or roll his eyes, Jean blinked rapidly. “Wait. She’s… she’s pregnant? Like for _real_?” And then Connie jumped forward, slamming his elbows on the table and making the empty dishes clink against the hard surface. At first Jean thought he was going to come over the table and jump at him, but the enormous ear to ear grin convinced him otherwise.

“I didn’t tell you, alright? But…” Connie bit his lip. “She is. I’m gonna be a _dad_!”

“Oh,” Jean mouthed, blinking again. Connie gave him a minute to process the information and when Jean finally found the appropriate reaction, he smiled quickly. “ _Oh_. Congratulations then, I guess.” Connie honest to god vibrated in his seat, wriggling like an overexcited puppy, and Jean’s cheeks started to hurt as he tried to keep the smile on.

“I know you don’t like kids but I’m just gonna pretend you’re one of us normal folks who _do_ , because _shit_!” And Connie slammed his hands on the table. “We’re gonna have a baby!” Jean swore he could see tears shimmering in the corners of Connie’s eyes, and that was too much. He stopped smiling, holding back an immediate grossed out reaction.

“Couldn’t you just get a puppy or something?” he suggested. “You know, start slow? I mean babies… _Babies_.” He pronounced the last word with a pained expression and shuddered.

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say any of that because I’m way too excited about this to let your anti-child attitude ruin it,” Connie declared happily. “Hey you wanna see the ultrasound pictures? I know you don’t, but I’ll show them to you anyway.” He was halfway through his jacket pocket by the time he finished the sentence, and then he pulled out a white envelope. He got out a few, dark pictures with what looked like white noise in the middle to Jean. He laid them out in between them and turned them to Jean.

“See,” he said, tapping a finger on one of the images. “It’s my baby there. My _child_ , Jean.”

“Yeah, I can see the resemblance,” Jean spoke idly, leaning closer to squint at the pictures. White noise was all he could see, but he nodded at Connie, who was staring at him expectantly. He snorted loudly at Jean’s remark and gathered the pictures, stuffing them back in the envelope.

“I know, it doesn’t look much, but it’ll grow.”

“Hopefully, I would like to actually _see_ your baby once it’s born without having to use a magnifier,” Jean smirked.

“You know what? I’m—I’m too happy to even say anything back to that. You referred to it as _my baby_ and I’m—”

“Okay, okay,” Jean said, trying to curb Connie’s enthusiasm. He raised his cup and remembered it was empty, placing it back on the table awkwardly.

“We weren’t even _trying_ or anything, we haven’t, I mean.” Connie ran his hand over the back of his head to the top of his head and scratched the short hair absent-mindedly. “’Course we talked about the, the um, _possibility_ of having kids in the future, but uhh. I just never… I never thought it’d happen so _soon_. What if I’ll be a horrible father?” He chuckled softly, maybe nervously, and looked at Jean, the worst possible person to give any advice or reassurance whatsoever. But he tried, anyway.

“Well, the way I see it, you got nine months to practice,” he grinned. “Just don’t drop it on its head, that much even I know.” Connie laughed, the worry on his face melting away.

“Remind me to never let you near my children.”

“Oh so now it’s suddenly plural? Just a second ago you were going mental over one baby.”

“One, I wasn’t going _mental_ , two—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jean hushed him quiet before he could finish. He didn’t look too happy about it, but closed his mouth nevertheless, huffing under his breath. “Look, you’ll probably be a great dad, you’ve taken care of me enough as it is, call it practice. You can thank me when he or she gets in trouble and you’ll know exactly what to do.”

“Oh god, I hope not,” Connie noted and Jean winced a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. Connie squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. “ _Shit_ , I didn’t mean, I’m sorry—”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Jean shrugged. “I’ll just be the living example of all the things you can do wrong in life. The kid’ll be terrified to even smoke one cigarette.”

“That reminds me… Well, not directly, obviously, but uh… How’s work?” Connie asked.

“Very smooth, Con,” Jean stared at him, unimpressed, and Connie shrunk in his seat, smiling sheepishly. “And I quit, actually.” He said it like it was no big deal, shrugging as he did, but he felt slightly proud of himself when Connie straightened back up again, his eyes wide and full of surprise.

“ _Really_?” Jean nodded at his question lightly. “That’s… great? Do we think it’s great?”

“I guess,” he responded. He eased his arms from the self-embrace.

“That’s great! So, what, you gonna concentrate on school now?”

“D’you think  I should?”

“Well, yeah, definitely,” Connie cheered. “No sense in wasting all that smartassness of yours.” He said the last part with a smirk, but Jean only scoffed at him lightly.

“Right. I dunno, I’ll see what happens.” He shrugged lopsidedly. “I just kinda wanna get out of this city and go somewhere else, I dunno.” Then he fell silent for a moment, watching an old couple a few tables from theirs eating lunch and talking about old, wrinkly people things, probably.

He couldn’t leave the city yet, not now, that much he was sure of, but somehow he felt like saying it out loud, putting the thought out there in case he ever had the chance to realise it. He had never had many plans when it came to life itself, and now that he was running out of things to do, he wasn’t sure if he was ready to actually make decisions for himself. It was easier to stand still and let things happen on their own accord than step out of the stream and keep moving.

He shook himself out of whatever had taken over him momentarily and watched Connie play with his phone. He was grinning like a moron; like people did when they were unaware someone was watching them do things that made them happy. He was probably texting Sasha, the lady who was now carrying his spawn. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, maybe they wouldn’t abandon him come the new born. Maybe Jean could still fit in the picture somehow.

“I told Sasha you’re coming on the weekend and that you absolutely don’t know anything,” Connie spoke, his eyes still on the screen of his flashy phone. “She knows that you know and she says hi.” Jean laughed, and Connie kicked him under the table.

“Come on, even she knows I’m bad with surprises,” Jean protested and tried to kick the guy back, only ending up stubbing his foot on the leg of his chair.

“Yeah, well, don’t look so horrified when she mentions it, then, okay?” Connie grunted and hid the phone in his pocket. “And bring something, like, I don’t know, flowers. It’s a nice gesture. And don’t tell her I told you to do that.”

“She’s gonna know either way.”

“ _Still_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jean sighed heavily, avoiding the icy squint Connie threw at his way. “You make it sound like I’m a moron. You know I _am_ happy for you, if this is what you want.”

“I know,” Connie hummed. “But I also know you’re not the most considerate person out there, even if you mean well.”

“I’m not gonna call her fat or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jean mumbled almost insulted, and Connie cracked him a smile.

“You can’t really see anything yet, she’s not that far along.” He scratched the faint stubble on his chin. “Today was our first time in ultra and we only found out like… Well, not that long ago.”

“So how does she feel about it? It’s her body that’s gonna stretch unrecognizably after all.” Jean barely avoided the kick aimed at his shin bone and he laughed at the expression on Connie’s face. “I’m kidding!” Connie muttered a few curse words at Jean after making sure no one else could hear them.

“You better not say that to her, the last thing I want is her to start worrying about her body on top of everything.”

“I wouldn’t!” Jean huffed, pretending he didn’t see Connie question his words loudly with the squint of his eyes and the pout of his lips. “Besides with the Muay Thai she’d kick my ass to the next galaxy.”

“She would, I tried it with her once…” Connie shook his head, wincing at the memory. “She still reminds me about it because she thinks it’s _hilarious_. I could’ve been gravely injured and she thinks it’s funny.” Jean snorted.

“Sure you could’ve.”

“Anyway, she’s excited about it too, but a little freaked out as you can imagine.”

“At least she gets to eat for two now,” Jean grinned. “That must make her happy.”

“Are you implying my to-be wife eats a lot?” Connie narrowed his eyes and leaned over the table, drumming his fingers against it.

“I’m not implying anything,” Jean said and prepared himself for another possible kick. “I’m _saying_ she eats a lot.” And then it came, the angry kick, Connie cursing a little louder at him this time. He barely avoided it and Connie tried again, huffing as Jean laughed at him. He crossed his arms over his chest and sulked until Jean managed to coax him out of his miffed state. It never took too much effort because Connie didn’t like to mope nor was he very good at it. Jean took back everything he had said about Sasha and promised to bring the most expensive flowers he could find. He drew the line in promising to tell Sasha how lovely she looked, though, because that would have just been weird.

“So how are you?” Connie asked eventually after he was convinced Jean was _really_ sorry for his comments and would not comment on his fiancée’s eating habits again. “Anything worth mentioning?” His sugar high was slowly dissolving and he used the last bits of the energy to clink his ice-cream spoon against one of the plates. Jean fought back the urge to grab the spoon from him and throw it as far as he could, and shrugged hastily.

“Not really. Same old, same old.” That was, if he didn’t include the inevitable shitstorm heading his way. He wasn’t touching that one with a ten feet pole.

“But if you quit your job, does that mean you don’t keep company anymore for that guy, whatshisface? The tall one?”

“Oh, uh, um,” Jean tried furiously to come up with any believable reply but Connie was too fast to notice the way he hesitated.

“What? Come on, you know I don’t like _not knowing_ ,” he declared, grinning stupidly and reaching to poke Jean over the table wherever he could reach. The blonde leaned away and tried to grab Connie by his extended finger, irritated.

“ _Fine_ , stop doing that,” he finally barked and Connie obeyed, pulling back to his side of the table, still fucking grinning. Jean was fiddling with the empty cup again, collecting his thoughts and trying to decide how much and to what extent he should say anything. Maybe Connie already knew enough like he always seemed to. Jean forgot way too often just how sharp the guy was when it came to things Jean thought he was good at hiding, so he took a deep sigh. “Okay so the thing is…”

“I knew it,” Connie entwined his hands behind his head and looked very much pleased with himself. It was like he had just discovered the meaning of life or some shit as he hummed behind a syrupy smile.

“Shut up, no you didn’t,” Jean protested. “Knew what?”

“He’s your boyfriend,” Connie said matter-of-factly. The sudden rush of blood to Jean’s face made him turn pink and his sulky expression to falter, but Connie was kind enough not to point it out. “What was his name again?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Jean mumbled borderline convincingly, completely focused on the empty cup now. Hell, his comment didn’t even _resemble_ a convincing argument, but the subject was a little too weird to be discussed. _He_ didn’t even know where he stood with Marco, he hadn’t really given it much thought. Until now, thank you very much.

“Okay, he’s not your boyfriend. Feel free to bring him around on the weekend, though. Saturday, to be exact. Six o’clock. Flowers.”

“Flowers, got it,” Jean echoed, because it was the only thing he knew he could say without turning redder in the face. He wasn’t really considering bringing Marco, was he? Nah.

 

After their lunch Connie headed back to work like the conscientious employee he was, while Jean was left to measure the busy streets alone. He didn’t feel like going back to the shithole of apartment where all his shit and responsibilities waited, all over every inch of the goddamn place, so he figured wasting an hour or two just mindlessly wandering around wasn’t a bad choice. His head felt clearer outside, the noises of the people and the cars helping him ignore his own loud thoughts. The only risk of being outside at this hour was that he might run into someone he knew or vaguely knew and be forced to engage in a meaningless chit-chat. He bought a pack of smokes and a bottle of wine with the change at the bottom of his pocket. It was still too early to start drinking, but he could hold onto it for a few hours. Then he’d go home and drink reality away like the grown-up he is. He could worry about the world and its problems the next day, or the day after that, or the day the sky catches fire.

For about ten minutes he found the outside world mildly interesting, window shopping and eavesdropping on people’s deadly boring conversations where he could. He smoked a cigarette and then another, someone coughing behind him judgmentally and then passing him by with a sharp glare thrown at his way. Lovely. When someone walked into him almost head first and continued as if stopping to recognise he was a moron for walking into another human being was not a choice, Jean remembered just how much he hated the outside world.

When he had first met Eren, the guy had eagerly told him all kinds of things about himself. He had had the habit of talking even when Jean didn’t pay attention, and the worst part was that Eren realised it soon enough, but he just didn’t care whether Jean listened or not. His need and will to talk subsided with time until they stopped talking about anything altogether. Just like Jean had wanted. But one of the things Jean had learned, willingly or not, was that Eren worked in a small record store. Apparently he had some kind of a passion for music or whatever. Jean remembered the name only vaguely, but he knew exactly where it was located because it was near one of the local pubs he used to hang out in a few years back. And somehow, _somehow_ he found himself at the door; the horribly hand-written sign on it announcing the place _open_. He stepped in. The place was small, dusty, and crammed in between the pub and a health food store that was full of hippies and other weirdos. The walls seemed to be really close to each other and the ceiling hung low, the subtle cracks on it adding to the shabby atmosphere.

He wasn’t sure if he expected Eren to be there or actually _not_ to be there, but whatever it was, he was a little surprised to see the guy lounging behind the cash register, biting his nails and reading a book. The music welcoming him, blaring from the speakers was some legendary rock band from the 70s that had published one album and then disappeared from the face of the Earth. The last renovations of the place were probably from the same decade. Eren raised his gaze quickly from the book when he heard the door open and almost let it fall back on the open pages before he took another look, squinting.

“Well well _well_ , look what the cat dragged in,” he purred as his eyes blew wide, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “Did you get lost?”

“Maybe,” Jean mumbled, walking through the narrow aisle of records. He flicked through a few lazily, Eren’s eyes following him keenly. He closed the book and rested his elbows on the counter, chuckling lightly.

“You looking for something specific?” he asked with amusement, maybe with a hint of mockery. He leaned over the counter and Jean glanced at him.

“Maybe,” he hummed, pushing the record in his hand back with the rest. “Where’re all the customers?” He walked to the counter and placed the paper bag on it. Eren shrugged.

“You’re the first one today so far,” he said, already interested in the bag. “Everyone downloads their music online. Records don’t sell like they used to.” He scratched the back of his head, a dirty old cap placed backwards over his dark hair. It had probably once been black but had faded to a stained grey, a logo of some old punk band pressed on the front, worn-out beyond recognition. Jean wrinkled his nose but didn’t say anything, just let his gaze run over Eren and to the walls covered in old posters, some of them curled with old age, and pictures of various artists and bands. Then Eren couldn’t curb his interest anymore and he rustled the bottle out of the paper bag. His eyes shone in time with his smile and before Jean could say anything, he had already screwed the cork open.

“Seriously?” Jean huffed as Eren downed a big gulp. He grimaced at the taste.

“Did you have to get the cheapest you could find?” he coughed and smoothly downed another gulp. Jean leaned against the counter and took the bottle as Eren extended it, trying to convey his unhappiness by staring at the guy from under his brow but Eren easily looked past it. Jean grunted and took a swig, shuddering at the taste, too. It tasted horrible, like cat-piss mixed with fermented fruits.

“Damn,” he wheezed, as Eren snatched the bottle from his hand.

“But really, though,” he hummed after a third gulp. “Why’re you here?” He screwed the cork shut and slid against the counter, eyeing Jean curiously, trying to suck the taste off of his tongue.

“I was in the neighbourhood.” It wasn’t even a lie.

“Like hell you were,” Eren snorted. He reached for Jean’s hand and picked a piece of thread from the seam of his jacket. “Like your hair, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Jean said. Eren slid his fingers on the worn-out leather of his jacket sleeve, and picked at it absent-mindedly.

“So you get paid to stand here and do nothing, all day?” Jean asked, ignoring Eren invading his personal space.

“Well it depends,” Eren hummed, watching his own fingers intensely. “Sometimes I close early if it’s a super slow day, but I only get paid for the hours I’m actually in ‘ere. And sometimes we get orders from out of town and I have to pack ‘em up and take them to the post office.” He shrugged, wrapping his fingers idly around Jean’s arm. He looked at Jean, the blonde staring at him with a deadpan expression. He tilted his head to the side and raised an eyebrow, leaning a little more over the counter, closer to Jean.

“So you came all the way down here to ask me about my _job_ , huh?” he murmured, licking his lips. Jean shrugged, and Eren’s mouth drew in a sly smile. “I’m flattered, really.” He pushed himself up on his tiptoes and over the counter, his other hand grabbing the front of Jean’s jacket, and he pulled the more or less compliant guy into a kiss.

It was and it always would be beyond complicated with them on more than one level, but there was something Jean got out of the thing with Eren. Maybe a moment’s peace of mind, a break from the usual routine, or maybe the guy annoyed and challenged him enough that it tickled him in all the right ways. It wasn’t like he got to treat many people like he treated Eren and still have them around when he felt like putting up with them.

Besides, he didn’t see anything more in Eren than a body that was willing to be used by him when he wanted it. Maybe Eren had his own, fucked up reasons why he put up with it time after time or maybe he was just fucking stupid. Really, it didn’t matter to Jean, just like no one else did, either. That was a thing he found harder and harder to tell himself.

They made out over the counter, Eren half-lying on it, hanging onto Jean, who had to have the upper hand even when he wanted to pull the guy over the stupid thing in between them just so he could slam him against it. He wasn’t fazed after Eren let go with a deep sigh against his mouth, sliding off the counter and snatching the bottle and unscrewing it once again.

“Wanna go fool around in the basement?” he suggested, sipping the alcohol. Jean licked his lips, the faint taste of Eren lingering in his mouth; invading and relentless, like the guy was.

“There’s a basement?” he asked stupidly, following as Eren went around the counter and then past him to the door. He lifted the window blinds slightly and peeked outside for a moment, and then let them drop closed, turning the sign on the door to say _closed_.

“I’ll just take my lunch break now or whatever,” he answered to the question Jean hadn’t asked, and the blonde nodded shortly. He watched as Eren made his way towards him and grabbed him by the arm, leading him to the back of the shop and then down the horribly narrow stairs to the tiny basement. The music from upstairs didn’t reach all the way down, the bass faintly throbbing in the air. One of the basement walls was hidden by a bookshelf filled with records, and at the opposite wall rested an old leather couch, so worn out it looked like the fillings might pop out of its seams any second.

“Take your shoes off, boss doesn’t like dirt in her happy place,” Eren instructed, kicking his boots on the side, the socks on his feet mismatched. He padded to the bookshelf and shuffled through the records, pulling one out with a satisfied hum.

“Happy place,” Jean parroted. Maybe Eren’s boss enjoyed claustrophobia and the faint smell of mold. He pulled his shoes off and left them next to Eren’s, falling on the couch that made the saddest little puff under his weight. There was a good old-fashioned disco ball hanging from the ceiling, turning very lazily, a few mirrors missing from its surface. Then he noticed the hookah in the corner next to the couch and the ragged Persian carpet under their feet. He shuffled his feet against it, and like everything else in there, it had seen its best days probably centuries ago.

“You like The Clash, right?” Eren asked, placing a vinyl on a turntable that looked old enough to be antique. Jean couldn’t help but wonder where all the crap had come from, the odds and ends filling the tiniest spaces in the bookshelf. He swore he could spot a headless bobblehead doll among them, with no clue of who or what it had once been, and _why_ it still had the right to exist.

“Sure, why not,” Jean answered, not really paying attention. He was eyeing through the number of photos on the wall now, mostly old Polaroids and faded black and white pictures. Some of the people in them he faintly recognised as people in famous bands, but most of them were complete strangers to him.

“You like? The guy who used to own this place met some pretty cool people in his time.” Eren slumped next to him in the couch, holding out the bottle. Jean took it without looking at Eren, downing the slightly better than cat-piss wine, and they sat in silence for a while, Eren staring at Jean staring at the pictures. “His daughter owns this place now.” Jean nodded reflexively and hummed around the mouthful of alcohol. He could feel Eren’s sharp eyes boring into the side of his face, demanding and unyielding. The couch under them groaned as Eren shifted his weight and stretched his arms over the back of the couch, his fingers startling Jean by running through the short hair at the back of his neck. Jean leaned forward instinctively, running his own hand over the slight tingle on his neck. Eren scoffed at his reaction but didn’t say anything, and immediately his fingers were back on Jean’s neck when the guy lay back against the couch. He didn’t say anything or look at Eren as the guy massaged his skin gently, his rather long nails dancing on the skin expertly.

Eren knew exactly how to make Jean succumb; he had spent so much time learning all the tricks and all the spots that made Jean go weak in the knees that even when Jean stubbornly fought back to keep his face straight, he always gave in sooner rather than later. And when he did, he leaned into the touch, into the hand that ran through his hair and made him choke a little as it pulled on the strands, just enough for him to feel the light sting. The second he gave in, Eren used the opportunity to scoot closer and make his move. Jean tilted his head immediately to the side when Eren reached to kiss his neck; at first softly, experimentally, and then more intrusively, hungrily. He knew Jean would push him away if he got obnoxious and tried to bite him too hard, but when he bit just enough – just on the side of painful, sure not to leave any marks – Jean shuddered and sighed, giving him even more room to work with. If Eren had dared, he would have mocked the guy a little, definitely teased him, maybe make him squirm and even beg, but the truth was that Eren craved for this enough not to take a chance at ruining it. The way he felt Jean’s pulse race under his lips and in between them turned him on like crazy. There was nothing better than making a mess out of the usually so arrogant and cocky Jean, who prided himself for not being easy to play.

Oh, but he was easy alright. Eren’s free hand had already slyly unbuttoned his jeans, the warm hand worming its way under the waistband. They both sighed, Eren against Jean’s neck and Jean into the air as Eren wrapped his hand loosely around Jean’s half-hard cock through his underwear. The blonde unashamedly spread his legs more, Eren chasing for his lips across his sharp jaw to his chin. Jean made the guy work for it but only a little before he happily turned his head, Eren covering his mouth with his own immediately. He hummed approvingly in the back of his throat, the lazy, sloppy make out turning gradually into a fight for dominance. Usually it was Eren who gave up and let Jean take control, but this time he pushed back as Jean tried to push him. The bastard. He grunted as a response, gripping the back of Eren’s neck tightly after he flipped the filthy cap off his head and to the floor. The forgotten bottle had already fallen on its side, some of the wine spilling on to the couch and instantly absorbed into the foam inside through the cracks in the leather.

Eren had the audacity to grin against Jean’s mouth as the guy tried to fight him on his back, and then he sunk his teeth into Jean’s lower lip like a predator. It was enough to distract Jean and stop him from fighting long enough for Eren to slip his hand out of Jean’s jeans, much to his disappointment, and push himself onto the guy’s lap, straddling him. Both of his hands were in Jean’s hair now and he growled at him from between his teeth, against Eren’s grin, his fingers gripping Eren’s thighs. Eren gasped surprised and repaid him by tightening his grip on the blonde hair between his fingers, before he crashed their mouths together again, their teeth bumping against each other rather painfully. Eren was much stronger and much heavier than he looked and even though Jean tried to haul him off and to the couch or maybe to the floor just to piss him off, he didn’t budge. When he let go long enough to yank his own shirt off, Jean used the opportunity to pepper his torso with open-mouthed kisses. Eren responded by threading his fingers through the blonde hair in his reach and the soft moan in the back of his throat turned into a loud _ow_ as Jean sunk his teeth in his flesh, just above his hipbone.

If Jean liked a little pain here and there, Eren got off on it. So Jean biting him or scratching him only made him moan like a cat in heat and always left him wanting more. And if Eren got off on pain, Jean got off on causing him pain. Eren didn’t bruise easily, but more often than not he left with at least one set of purple bite marks somewhere under his clothes.

After he was able to push Eren off and on the floor on his knees, in between his thighs, after they’d both come somewhere else than on the already suspiciously dirty couch, after the record had stopped playing and after Jean had shaken Eren off of him, they shared a smoke in silence. So apparently Eren’s boss hated shoes in her happy place but cigarette smoke and random guys fucking in there was alright. Jean picked the bottle from the floor and dropped the last of the cig in, and it let out a faint hiss as it hit the last drops of the wine. Then he leaned down to place it back on the floor and stood up, zipping up his jeans.

Now they would do the usual routine. As Eren got up too, buttoning his own jeans up, Jean picked his shirt from the floor and pulled it on, followed by his jacket, and he was already on edge because of the way Eren was staring at him. He felt those stupid green eyes creeping on his skin, making the hair on his body stand. One word out of the guy and he’d probably punch his stupid face. Only Eren wasn’t as stupid as Jean wanted to believe, and so he kept quiet. Maybe he was waiting for Jean to pick his things up and walk out, because he just stood still, fiddling the hem of his stupid tank top that made him look like an asshole. And as the silence between them grew longer, Jean finally glanced at Eren, who just looked back, his face neutral and unaffected.

“Stop staring at me, it’s fucking unnerving,” Jean spat out, and even though Eren flinched with surprise, he didn’t do anything else.

“Well, where am I supposed to look? You’re standing in the way of the only exit here.”

“At your fucking feet, I don’t give a shit.”

“I don’t say anything and you manage to flip anyway,” Eren scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “How about you just get out before you pop a vein in your head, eh?”

“You owe me a bottle of wine.”

“More like half a bottle, but you know what, I’m a fair guy, we’ll make it a full bottle.” Eren threw him a smile that was nothing if not utterly bored. He knew exactly how to play the game too, Jean’s rules or not. “You’ll get it the next time you miss me.” But when Jean responded with nothing and pulled his shoes on, his gaze falling from Eren’s, Eren hugged himself a little tighter and swallowed a little harder. He should have probably known better than to play games he could never win, but maybe he was able to convince himself with lies that would never see the daylight because they were bullshit and he knew it.

He saw the guy upstairs and decided to tell himself one more lie as he kissed Jean against the door. When he pulled back, Jean was already out on the street.

 

He got another bottle of wine and went home. For a few hours he restrained himself from opening it, killing time by getting high and reading through all the messages Marco had sent him. They had abated a few days ago, maybe more, and now that Jean was floating in his thoughts and in the air around him, the music he was listening to vibrating on his skin, the bed under him softer and gentler than ever before, he created all kinds of situations in which he would be forced to call Marco. Not that he needed much of an excuse, he really just wanted to hear the guy’s voice. There was something very uplifting in the way Marco talked, it was like he was able to wrap all the beautiful things he believed in in the words he used, like his mere _voice_ was full of things Jean could never be or understand. Maybe it was because he was always smiling, and even when he wasn’t, the corners of his mouth turned upwards and his eyes were bright and alert but not like Jean’s; Jean’s eyes were alert because he didn’t trust anyone around him, because he needed to find the exit at all times wherever he was while Marco just wanted to find people around him, because he’d rather fall on them than fall on his face alone like Jean.

He couldn’t say all that to Marco, though, because even through the thickness in his mind he realised it didn’t make much sense, and he didn’t want Marco to find out he was high. He needed to sound like a normal person and he sure as hell shouldn’t tell Marco how much he missed his dimples or those stupid freckles that seemed to multiply now that the sun spent more time out than hiding behind a wall of clouds. More than that he missed the warmness, the softness of Marco, the taste of his skin and the sound of his voice when he was smiling or the way he let all the bad things filter through him like sand from between his fingers and Jean couldn’t do that. He hung on to the bad things like he’d stop being himself if he didn’t, and the good things, what good things? There were no good things but there was Marco, _Marco_ , and right now he needed to hear Marco’s voice more than anything.

And so he called Marco.

His hand sweated against the phone before Marco had even picked up. Everything in his mind and in his body was louder than usual, he could hear his heart’s steady drumming somewhere in the nooks of his head, and his thoughts were flying out of control and he couldn’t catch that one thing he would say when—

“Hey.” And everything froze for about a fraction of a second before time caught on again and rolled forward on a steady pace.

“Hey,” he croaked and coughed, smoothly, yes, great. “What’s up?” And even before Marco even said anything, Jean _heard_ the smile on his face, he heard the way he probably licked his lips and took a breath a little deeper than he had before he had picked the phone up.

“Oh, nothing much, the usual school stress and such.” A brief silence that felt like an eternity for Jean. “Good to hear you voice.” Of course he would say that. And of course Jean was grinning like a complete moron now.

“Yeah?” he said stupidly.

“Yes, I thought you…” Marco cleared his throat. “Maybe didn’t want to hear from me again or something.” Jean scoffed loudly.

“Why wouldn’t I want to hear from you again?” he said. “Don’t be stupid.” Marco chuckled softly and it made Jean’s heart flutter.

“Well I don’t know,” he then spoke. “You didn’t respond to anything I sent you so…”

“I just,” Jean licked his lips that felt suddenly so dry they might crack if he moved them too much. “I sometimes need to be alone, you know. ‘m sorry.” Marco didn’t say anything right away, and again Jean felt like the silence dragged on for too long, like Marco had forgotten him and moved on to other things.

“I understand,” was the eventual response, and it was so soft, so gentle, so _calm_ that Jean hated the fact he wasn’t where Marco was, physically, and maybe mentally. “It’s okay Jean, I’m just glad you didn’t decide to abandon me.” And he chuckled again, that light, airy laugh that sounded like a swarm of butterflies all setting in the air at the same time.

“If I did, I’d tell you first,” Jean answered, and it sounded so grim, so low against Marco’s words. He was smiling or maybe grinning but it didn’t help, he couldn’t talk like Marco talked. He couldn’t imitate that carefree, sympathetic attitude he had on all the world. Even when the world didn’t deserve it. He heard Marco swallow a soft laughter, maybe run his other hand through that silky, perfect hair of his.

“Well that’s,” he kept a short pause, “comforting, I guess.”

“I mean,” Jean hurried to add. “I wouldn’t. I’m not… going to.” And Marco’s smile radiated through the lines and made Jean smile too.

“I’m glad, then,” he said. “I missed you.”

“Yeah,” Jean murmured. “Me too.”

“How are you?” Marco asked. Jean could’ve listened to him talk all night, that steady, wavy voice that made his insides melt.

“You know,” he answered, the usual response that required no energy or no real thought. What was there to say anyway? “Fine I guess. What are you doing right now?”

“I’m, uh, prepping for an upcoming exam.” Marco sighed, long and deep, a little brokenly. “It’s that time of year again.” He laughed quickly, even that a little twisted at the seams.

“Oh.” Jean switched the phone on his other ear. “Sucks.”

“I know, but it won’t last forever.” Very Marco-like. “Also I’m happy because I got an internship for the summer, so… One less thing to worry about.” Jean hummed.

“Cool.” Please come over. “Congrats.”

“Thanks,” Marco purred. “So are you up to anything special?”

“Nah,” Jean said before he even had time to consider the question. “Figured I could get drunk and pass out.” He tried to laugh but nothing came out and the silence on Marco’s end was deafening, before the guy mumbled out a fragile _oh._

“Well, uh…”

“I’m kidding.” Maybe.

“Oh,” Marco responded. “Well how’s… work?” It was very sweet in its own way, Marco asking the questions he didn’t really want to know the answer for, but he was polite, he cared about things and people he really didn’t need to. Jean bit his lip and sunk a little lower in the bed under him.

“I quit,” he said easily. “I’m unemployed as of yesterday.”

“Really?” Marco sounded surprised, which on the other hand didn’t surprise Jean.

“Yeah,” Jean stretched his numb limbs. “Wanna hire me? I’m pretty good at what I do.” Marco laughed and it sounded like a field full of sunflowers, all the flowers blooming at the same time.

“Sure, why not,” he snickered. “God knows I need some sort of distraction after I’m done with finals.”

“I’ll distract you alright.”

“Oh really?” Marco chuckled.

“Oh yeah, I’ll distract you all night,” Jean murmured. “And then some.”

“Well,” Marco spoke softly. “I can’t wait.” Jean bit his lip and hummed.

“Mm, if you want to, I can come there and distract you right away.”

“Is that so?” Marco murmured back, the tone of his voice darker.

“Yeah, I’m not busy or anything, unless you are.”

“Well, constitutional law _is_ waiting for me, but…”

“Oh fuck constitutional law, who needs it anyway?”

“Well—”

“I get it, don’t say it.” Marco laughed, the sound bubbling in Jean’s ears.

“Okay,” he chuckled. “I’d really love to see you though.”

“I’m all yours baby,” Jean grinned. He heard himself talk, distantly, but he wasn’t sure it really was him talking. “Just say the word.” Marco sighed, and when he spoke again, he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I really, _really_ have to prep though, it’s important, and…” He groaned softly. “I’m sorry, this really sucks.” He sounded apologetic, sad even, he really did, and Jean sighed, blowing his lungs empty of air.

“No, I get it, school’s important. You do your thing.” The words tasted like disappointment in his mouth.

“But I think I have a free weekend, or at least I think I can get it free if… If you’re free?”

“You said ‘free’ three times in one sentence,” Jean mocked playfully. “Yeah I’m free alright. No wait, I have this thing…”

“What thing?”

“I agreed to go to a friend’s, shit, I can’t cancel it or anything. Unless…” The perfect opportunity. He just didn’t like the idea of going alone to feel like shit among all the couples that were sure to be in great numbers, since Connie’s and Sasha’s friends were mostly just couples. “You wanna come? It’s the bald guy, remember? You talked on the phone with him.”

“Oh right,” Marco winced at the other end of the line. “Did he ask about it, by the way? I mean the whole thing with Armin…”

“Yeah, he knows, he just mostly thinks you’re an awkward weirdo though.”

“Aww,” Marco whined and Jean snorted. “I’m not a weirdo!”

“You are a bit, though.”

“I don’t even have any weird habits, how can I be a weirdo?”

“Don’t lie to me Marco, _every_ one has weird habits.” Marco whined again, louder, as Jean chuckled at his protests. “You don’t think it’s weird to pay a dude you don’t even know to keep visiting you?”

“ _Unfair_ ,” Marco huffed, and it created a mental image in Jean’s mind of the guy crossing his arms over his chest and pouting his lips. He smiled.

“So anyway…” He held the words back for a second, hesitating. “D’you wanna come?”

“Sure.” Marco answered immediately. “Yeah, I would love to.”

“It’s not like you _have_ to or anything,” Jean mumbled.

“I know. I want to, though.”

“Cool. So it’s Saturday, at six.”

“I’ll be at your place half past five?”

“Make it five.”

“Okay. What should I wear?”

“Clothes, preferably. I don’t mind either way, but not everyone wants to see your freckled dick.” He was funny, even if Marco didn’t appreciate the joke.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” the guy scolded, but Jean was very happy with himself. “And I’m sorry to say there are no freckles on my penis.”

“I don’t believe you, I’m sure there were the last time I checked.”

“No, none,” Marco sighed.

“I need proof.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Marco asked carefully. Oh, sweet little naïve Marco. Jean licked his lips and adjusted his position.

“I need a dick pic.” He hummed. “You know. For science.”

“I’m not,” Marco started, but Jean cut him short quickly.

“ _Or_. Or I’m coming there to check it out myself. The choice is yours.” Marco stayed silent, the sound of him biting his nails filling the empty space in between their words. Jean had enough time to get nervous for about five times, and he cut the silence off before it got the best of him. “Or not, you know—”

“I didn’t say no,” Marco interrupted him. There was the delicious, dark undertone to his words again, and it set Jean’s nerve ends on fire. He chuckled at the back of his throat.

“Semi will do just fine.”

“So what do I get?” Marco asked. Jean was really enjoying the turn the conversation had taken, truly. He pretended to contemplate for a moment, humming to himself.

“How about,” he started, and took a moment to listen to Marco hold his breath before he continued. “Whatever you want.” Marco swallowed.

“Could you,” he spoke, his voice wavering at the edges. “Your chest, with, with your collarbones. Maybe your stomach too.”

“My collarbones? Um, sure, but why?”

“I, uh, I just like the way they look. And your hipbones.” The soft whimper he let out at the end of his words faded quickly but not before it shook Jean to his core. “If it’s weird—”

“It’s weird alright, but I’ll send you ten pictures of my goddamn hipbones if that’s what gets you off.”

“It’s not that,” Marco mumbled embarrassedly. “I just really like your body. It’s pretty. _You’re_ pretty.” Jean had to lower the phone from his ear to just concentrate on the white ceiling above him momentarily, not to mention to adjust the solid cock straining against the zipper of his pants. Marco was far from the innocent, oblivious guy he had thought him to be in the beginning, but somehow he still kept catching Jean off guard the most unusual ways. It wasn’t even dirty talk, far from it, but still it managed to turn him on like crazy. _God_ , he missed Marco’s touch, his smile, his fucking everything. He missed his arms around him, because he felt safe there. The world was a scary place and right now he just wanted to get out of it.

“You still there, Jean?” He heard Marco’s voice faintly, spoken against the mattress of his bed, and he contained himself and set the phone on his ear again.

“Yeah I’m here,” he said huskily.

“So, um…”

“I miss you.” He wished he could’ve said that was not what he wanted to say, but it was _exactly_ what he wanted to say. He missed Marco. He really did.

“I miss you too.” Even Marco’s voice was safe, it had the ability to calm the storm that was about to break loose in Jean’s mind, calm those waves of anxieties and fears and doubts he had. He didn’t judge Jean, he didn’t use any of his mistakes against him, because between them, right now, those things didn’t exist. He was a clean slate and he could start over, right here, and leave all his baggage behind.

“So… You sending me that dick pic or what?”

“Way to ruin the moment,” Marco laughed. “Here I thought you miss _me_ and not my…”

“Your dick? I miss you both, rest assured.”

“Oh good, I was worried for a second,” Marco snickered. “Okay, I’ll send it, but you have to promise that you’ll never try to blackmail me with it or anything of that nature.”

“Like when you’re a rich and famous lawyer? No, definitely not,” Jean spoke through the smirk on his lips. “Come on, you can trust me, I would _never_.” Marco grunted under his breath but didn’t try to argue.

“I guess I’ll see you in a few days then?” he asked softly, _longingly_ , if Jean knew anything. He didn’t really want to hang up, not yet, because that meant having to step out of the safe bubble around them and back to the world where he was alone in his bed and slowly coming down from his high.

“Yeah,” he answered simply. “See ya.”

It took Marco almost fifteen minutes to gather enough courage and about the same amount of messages emphasising Jean to _promise_ he wouldn’t show them to anyone.  
  
_that’s like the first rule of sexting. i ain’t showing them to anyone, duh  
_ to: Marco, at 6:18 pm

 _Okay, okay. It’s harder than I thought, though.  
_ from: Marco, at 6:19 pm

 _don’t be shy, i like it hard  
_ to: Marco, at 6:19 pm

 _Ha! Very funny.  
_ from: Marco, at 6:20 pm

 _still waiting  
_ to: Marco, at 6:22 pm

 _I can’t believe I promised to do this._  
from: Marco, at 6:27 pm   
  
But Marco, the beautiful soul, was a man of his word despite his hesitation, and Jean was nothing if not a grateful audience. He sent a bunch of filthy praises to the guy along with the pictures he had promised to send. And Marco sent praises of his own with a fewer sexual undertones, although there was enough to make Jean bite his lip and force himself to not just say fuck it and run to the other side of the town to Marco.

He needed Marco to do his school stuff and whatever so he could have him all to himself on Saturday. After the mandatory socialising at Connie’s, of course. Then he would take Marco back home and show him just how much he had missed him. Kirschtein style.

 

Jean took the whole Marco coming over thing very seriously. Even if it wasn’t actually him coming over but merely passing by his place to somewhere else, it still made him nervous, jittery. He did something he hadn’t done in a, well, a while: he cleaned his apartment. It wasn’t much; mostly it just meant he stuffed all his clean clothes in the closet and picked up all the things that didn’t belong on the floor and hid them in places where Marco wouldn’t see them. That included dirty laundry as well as empty pizza boxes and bottles. The puke can he had managed to empty, and later, destroy, a week before with much gagging and breathing through his nose, and even the insides of Marco’s stomach on the floor were _nearly_ completely gone. He wasn’t sure but he suspected the smell had been absorbed into the floor because no matter how much cleaning product, the only kind he could find in his apartment, he poured on it, he could still sense the faint smell that made something get caught on the back of his throat.

At least the rest of his apartment didn’t smell all that bad. The few, mould-ridden bowls in his sink he just decided to throw out. Not like he used his dishes too often, he could always just buy new ones if needed. The vacuum cleaner saw the daylight from the back of his closet for as long as it took for him to figure out it wasn’t working, and then it found its way outside and to the dumpsters, where Jean left it to survive on its own.

By Saturday his place actually looked like it was inhabited by a decent human being. The whole ‘here lives a bunch of crack heads’ vibe was gone, at least after he covered his rather disgusting looking couch with some old blanket he found hidden in the junk he never used. Connie had given it to him after he’d spent his first night on the uneven floor with nothing else but his hoodie as a pillow. Of course, Connie had tried to give him much more but the proud little Jean he had once been had declined it all. He hadn’t had the heart to get rid of it although Connie had assured him he should after he bought a relatively new one that was at least slightly in a better shape. He had no trouble getting rid of things, but for some reason even if the blanket didn’t have any sentimental value, it had sort of become to represent everything Connie had ever done for him. The ridiculousness of the thought would go to the grave with Jean, but he allowed himself a moment to dwell in it.

 So when he finally took a step back on that afternoon and admired the miracles he had made to happen with just hiding things that shouldn’t be in plain sight to begin with, he might have also dwelled a little on the feeling of stupidity for the trouble he had gone through. Because for what?

For Marco, of course. No matter what the guy thought of him, Jean wouldn’t give the poor soul any more reason to think he was a filthy slob. The look on Marco’s face when he had sat on the coffee-stained (who was Jean kidding, it was probably stained with a lot more substances and coffee wasn’t the worst of them) couch the first time had unfortunately burned itself on Jean’s memory forever. And that look, he never wanted to see it on Marco again.

The minutes ticked on as surely as they were meant to and although Marco wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near for another hour, Jean’s fidgeting had already taken on colossal dimensions. Nervousness and anxiety were nothing new to him, but this wasn’t just normal kind of anxiety. It did make his heart beat faster and his stomach turn inside out but it didn’t make him want to curl up and evaporate into the air to avoid doing anything. In fact, it was impossible for him to sit still for longer than about ten seconds, and then he was on his feet again, trying not to chew the skin off his fingers or make a complete mess out of his hair by running his hands through it over and over again. It was probably sticking in every direction already but he didn’t notice. He couldn’t get the hang of the things going through his mind, because there were too many thoughts running into each other and making so much noise.

He checked the time about every five minutes and even when the minutes seemed to tease him by stopping completely, the hands of the clock finally, _finally_ reached their destination and Jean’s heart was in his throat, his palms were sweaty and he was five minutes away from fucking _imploding_ under the weight of his own fucking mind. It was too early to let the doubts run free but it was getting harder to keep them contained because suddenly whether Marco would ever show up mattered so much to him that he didn’t know whether he should freak out completely or just surrender, throw himself into the flow and go with it.

And then the soft knock that he immediately recognised shattered every fucking thought in his head and he walked to the door on legs that didn’t feel like his own, and he opened the door with a shaky hand, coated with cold sweat.

Later Jean would learn to pinpoint that to be the exact moment when he realised he was falling for Marco.

Marco stood behind his door, all smiles, dimples, freckles, all those beautiful things Jean had missed so much. He looked fresh, he looked happy, and his smile was so infectious that when Jean opened the door wide enough for Marco to fit in, instead stepping out of the way he just launched himself into the embrace that was already waiting for him. Marco took him in with a soft, breathy _hi_ that echoed in Jean’s mind that was now completely empty, completely receptive to anything Marco would say. He buried himself against Marco, against the smell that he knew by heart, against the steady heartbeat and against the warmth. Marco felt safe, welcoming. He felt like home, if Jean had ever had one.

“I missed you,” the brunette whispered to him, to his hair and to his skin, wherever the words could reach him and Jean returned the sentiment without giving it a second’s thought.

“I missed you too.” And he had, he had, with every passing second he had missed Marco more than it was his nature to do so.

They stayed in the doorframe for a moment and then another and those moments were turning to be the best ones Jean had had in a really long time.

He didn’t even doubt himself, he didn’t doubt Marco, he didn’t doubt anything when he searched for Marco’s lips with his own and when they kissed, he decided to jump into the flow and go with it. He wasn’t going to let go of Marco now and hopefully never, because when the simple, sweet ‘I missed you’ kiss turned into a fierce, passionate ‘I want you’ kiss, it was like all the shit that had been raining on him had stopped for a moment and the sun was up in the sky again, and Marco was the one that had brought the sun with him. And he dragged the ambassador of sun in his apartment and if possible, Marco was even more hesitant to let go of Jean and open his eyes so that they wouldn’t run into any walls on their way to Jean’s bed. The sex was a mix of complete loss of control and sense of time and an insufferable need to just be close to each other and breath each other in like they were both made of oxygen and they would suffocate without one another. It was want and need and lust and desire all mixed together and it made their galaxies collide, both of their worlds forever changed. Mostly it was just really fucking mind-blowing, though.

The post-sex languor had them wrapped around each other, Jean’s back against Marco’s chest, the guy holding him to make sure he wouldn’t float away from his embrace. There was nothing, absolutely nothing either of them had to think at that moment, and the chaotic circus in Jean’s head had quietened down for the night. His heart was still beating a beat too fast, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t a bad thing. It didn’t feel like a bad thing.

Marco’s hand was resting on his stomach, tracing the slight curves on his skin, the other hand supporting his weight and keeping him in an upright position, his lips caressing Jean’s bare shoulder. Jean made sure there was no room in between them, their skin practically melting together as one as he pressed against Marco.

“So how are you?” The words flowed out of Marco softly, his voice a mere murmur, imitating the lazy, unhurried pace of his fingers.

“I’m good,” Jean answered truthfully. “Just got fucked by a man whose body is a work of art, what do you think?” He turned his head enough to see Marco hovering above him, and he used the moment to give him a smirk, hidden partially by his teeth holding onto his lower lip. Marco leaned down to steal the smirk away from him, and for another moment they just kissed lazily, Marco’s hand temporarily winding tighter around Jean.

“I hope I’m not just some piece of meat for you,” Marco breathed against Jean’s mouth with a smile, earning himself a snort.

“I don’t even have an answer for that,” Jean breathed back, nibbling Marco’s lips with his own.

“That’s shocking,” Marco chuckled, and he muffled all Jean’s possible witty comebacks by kissing him again. Jean made grumbling sounds at the back of his throat but made no signs of resisting. Especially when Marco’s mouth derailed along his jaw to his neck, although somewhere very deep in his brain he remembered there was somewhere they had to be.

“God, I missed you,” Marco mouthed against his skin, the words hot and moist and definitely bound to stir emotions in the pit of Jean’s stomach. “I couldn’t concentrate on anything these past few days after you called.”

“Was it the call or the pictures?” Jean murmured, his eyes sliding closed as Marco nipped at his skin.

“Both.”

“Sorry I’m not sorry,” Jean hummed with a self-satisfied grin. He turned around to face the guy, and finding a place for all their limbs to fit comfortably, they fell into a natural silence, staring at each other. Marco had always been attractive, Jean remembered that, but now, looking at him, he saw things he hadn’t noticed before: the tiniest scar underneath the corner of his eye, the lighter circle of brown around his pupils, fading into the darker brown, the perfect symmetry of his face, the dark eyelashes shadowing those knowing eyes. There were dozens and dozens of freckles on his face, and even though they were mostly spread over his nose and cheeks, a few had escaped on his forehead, under his eyebrows, on his chin, and Jean even found one on his lips when he looked closely enough. Marco chuckled.

“What are you staring at so intensely?” he asked, running a hand over Jean’s cheek, over the sharp cheekbone. “Did I mention how much I like your hair, by the way?” Jean pushed himself closer to catch a small kiss.

“No, you did not,” he replied.

“Well I do. It looks good.”

“Thanks,” Jean spoke softly. “And I was just trying to count your freckles.”

“Oh no, I hate them.” Marco turned his nose up, pulling his hand back to run it over his face and break eye contact with Jean. The blonde pushed his hand away and scoffed at him.

“What are you talking about?” he muttered, and Marco shrugged quickly. His gaze darted away again as Jean tried to chase after it.

“I just… I don’t like them,” he said quietly, tentatively.

“Then you’re just stupid.” The sudden worry made Marco’s eyes widen and his face drop a few shades paler, and Jean couldn’t stop himself from snorting with laughter. “I think they’re cute, is all.”

“Oh.” The colour returned to Marco’s cheeks with a faint, pinkish hue. “Thanks.” And the smile that Jean would never get sick of seeing lit his face up. Maybe the worst and the best part of it all was that whatever Marco did, whatever he said, everything was soaked in his honesty and even if he wanted to, he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t hide away and he couldn’t show something he didn’t feel and Jean was left to wonder if he could ever match that kind of honesty. He wanted to, _really_ wanted to show Marco how he felt the same way Marco showed to him, but trying to unlearn years’ worth of not showing anything didn’t happen overnight.

“What time were we supposed to be at your friend’s?” Jean had completely forgotten about it.

“Um, six.”

“Alright, uh.” Marco leaned over him to reach for the clock on the night stand. “It’s 5.45, should we get going?” He probably knew the answer already and when Jean groaned and scooted impossibly close to him and clung to him, he snickered and ran his hand through Jean’s hair.

“Soon,” Jean mumbled.

“Come on, we don’t want to be late do we?” Marco hummed and dropped a light kiss on top of his head. “We can cuddle later.”

“I’m always late, he knows it, it’s no biggie.”

“But it’s very rude to be late.” Jean groaned at Marco, loudly, but the guy was already crawling out of the bed and out of the reach of Jean’s grabby hands. “Come on now.”

“You’re rude,” Jean protested with a huff, but when Marco shrugged his comment off with a laugh, he got out of the bed too. Marco didn’t have a tie, (un)fortunately, but he was still dressed, by Jean’s standards, fancily. He didn’t mind, far from it, but his jeans and a t-shirt combo looked like he was a bum living under a bridge compared to the neat little jacket and shirt Marco had adorned himself with. The jacket just had to fit his broad shoulders so perfectly that Jean almost managed to get his jeans on backwards.

“You really took the whole ‘what should I wear’ thing seriously, huh?” he said, dropping the pants on his ankles and turning them the right way, before trying to get them on again.

“Well you wouldn’t tell me what kind of an occasion it is, so I figured it’s better to be over-dressed than under-dressed,” Marco explained as he buttoned his shirt up, concentrating on the task with a furrowed brow.

“How’d you figure that?” Jean snorted and rolled his eyes, but Marco just smiled silently at him as warmly as he ever did and gave a lopsided shrug, pursing his lips. Jean scoffed. “ _Right_.” He picked his shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head, Marco watching him carefully with a contemplating face. Jean wasn’t sure he wanted to know what was going on in his head, but as he walked to the guy and attempted to slide past him, Marco wound an arm around his waist and pulled him close.

“Look at you,” Jean said, and the light smirk on Marco’s lips surprised him more than the hands sliding around him, caressing his back.

“Look at _you_ ,” Marco purred, licking his lower lip quickly. “You look really good today.” And then he leaned back slightly to take a better look at Jean.

“I always do,” Jean grinned. “Also you don’t have to flatter me, I’m already sleeping with you.” He ran his hands against Marco’s chest, sliding his fingers under the lapels of his jacket.

“You’re a bit of a smart aleck, aren’t you?” Marco noted, tilting his head to the side. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Jean smirk at him like a cat at a cream bowl.

“You’re very observant,” Jean murmured, leaning on his toes to plant a kiss on Marco’s pursed lips. “You should be like a… a lawyer or something.” Marco ran his hands down Jean’s back to squeeze his ass devilishly, and Jean would’ve denied he gasped out of surprise if anyone was to ask.

“What ever am I going to do with you and that mouth of yours?” The hands felt the shape of his ass shamelessly, and the whole time Marco’s half-lidded eyes stared right into Jean’s.

“Mm,” Jean was able to breathe out, his voice quivering slightly. “I can think of a few things.” For a moment the air sparked with tension and the hair on Jean’s body was standing up, but then Marco patted his ass like he would pat a dog, and let go.

“We need to go now,” he said sunnily, and probably pretended he didn’t see Jean’s face fall.

“Oh come on,” he whined, but Marco shrugged with a smile.

“I told you it’s rude to be late.”

“Oh, you, you,” Jean huffed. “You’re gonna have it later, you _tease_.”

“I’ll hold you onto that promise,” Marco chirped happily as he straightened his shirt and tucked it in his pants. If he had looked closely enough, he would’ve seen the crazy glint in Jean’s eyes turn into a scheming squint. Marco hummed some tune under his breath and even when he reached down to pick up a shoe, his ass hanging in the air like a goddamn painting on a museum wall, Jean didn’t say anything. He even resisted the temptation to grab it, and instead put on a jacket and his shoes too.

“Okay,” Marco said. He checked his pockets to see he had everything and nodded at the door. “Shall we?” With a deep breath Jean nodded, making sure he had his keys, too.

As they walked down the narrow stairs to the lower floor, Marco’s hand came to rest on Jean’s ass.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in the eyes  
> I can tell, you will always be danger
> 
> (Mumford & Sons - Snake Eyes)
> 
> //
> 
> Hey oh  
> Where can I go  
> When all the roads I take they never lead me home  
> Hey oh  
> I miss you so  
> But I'm used to seeing people come and go
> 
> (James Blunt - When I Find Love Again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I actually managed to finish this chapter. 24k+ words and countless hours laters, it's done. I have drained all my effort, all my energy and all I have to give to this chapter and I can't wait to hear what you think of it. Guys, guys, guys (and gals and non-binaries), I've read your last comments about a dozen times to keep myself motivated. Keep 'em coming, I need them. I need to know WHAT I MAKE YOU FEEL. Because you make me feel nothing but sunshine. To quote [Tina Turner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GC5E8ie2pdM), you guys are SIMPLY THE BEST, YOU'RE BETTER THAN ALL THE REST, BETTER THAN ANYONE. Fun fact: Whenever I listen to her these days all I can think about is this fic (because I've listened to her so much while writing). I have either ruined her music for myself completely OR it's the best thing ever.
> 
> THIS FIC HAS ITS FIRST ANNIVERSARY 13TH JUNE. Just thought you should know. I don't think it's humanly possible to write the next chapter to that, _but_ I might write some smutty little side thing for this if anyone's interested.
> 
> A big, huge, _enormous_ thank you to my ever lovely [beta B](http://doyouqueue.tumblr.com) for the effort she went through fixing this thing. And for encouraging me to march on even when I was lying in the ditch and bawling my eyes out for reasons unknown. I never did that, I'm kidding. She's incredible, you have no idea.
> 
> That's it, that's all I wanna say. You can find my tumblr [here](http://dollyb0y.tumblr.com), feel free to talk to me or just submit weird pictures if that's your cup of tea.

He remembered the flowers. Barely, but he did, and they stopped by a florist, where Marco had to explain to Jean why bringing red roses was a bad idea, and Jean in turn whined about how those were the only flowers he was even able to recognise. He left the decision to Marco, who ended up spending about ten minutes trying to decide which ones to bring. Even when Jean sighed theatrically and muttered that it didn’t really matter, Marco just hushed him and picked something that by Jean’s standards was ridiculously expensive for a thing that would die in about week anyway. And then Marco paid for it, with background grumbles from Jean who tried to pay for at least half of it, expensive or not. It was about principle.

But Marco was even more stubborn than Connie when it came to paying things, and he refused the awkwardly offered money with a sly glint in his eyes that suggested Jean could pay for it later. How, was not said, but it was pretty obvious in the curve of Marco’s lips. It left a warm sting on Jean’s cheeks but he stuffed the money back in his pocket and pretended he wasn’t left speechless by this definitely new, bold side of Marco.

They were late, and before they made it to the front door, Jean had already assured Marco three times that it was _fine_ and that no one ever made it on time anyway. Marco looked like the puppy he was, his eyes big and bright behind his dark lashes, his expression a mixture of worry and excitement. He hid behind the stupid flower when Jean rang the doorbell. So maybe he had been wrong about no one making it on time, since the house seemed to be pretty full when Connie opened the door, but he was right about Connie not giving a shit. He actually looked happy to see Jean, and when he spotted Marco with the plant, the happiness swelled into excitement. Jean had about a word and a half out before Connie was already half pulling, half gesturing them inside, his eager eyes gazing both of them from head to toes. As soon as they were inside, he extended his hand to Marco, who swapped the plant in his other hand and held it against his chest, and extended the other to Connie. Jean followed the courtesies from the side, unconsciously worrying his lips with his teeth.

“Hey, man, good to see you again,” Connie rejoiced with a smile. “Sorry, I don’t remember your…”

“It’s Marco, hey, nice to see you. Connie, was it?” Marco spoke politely, softly, _disarmingly_ , and Jean admired for half a second how good Marco was with people. He didn’t even have to pretend, the sunny personality and interest in everything and everyone came naturally. Jean shrugged his jacket off to the floor, where Marco almost immediately picked it up and hung it up with his own coat. They followed Connie into the apartment, and soon Sasha skipped to them, pulling Jean into a hug and then Marco, who seemed more accustomed to people touching him than Jean. Marco introduced himself with a wide smile, complimenting their house smoothly, sincerely, and Sasha already liked him, Jean could tell from a mile away. It meant that later they would both tell Jean how lovely Marco was, and Jean would have to answer intrusive questions he had no answers to. He could say no to Connie, but with Sasha, it was a completely different situation.

“We brought you flowers. Or, well, more like _a_ flower.” Jean glanced over at the pot Marco was holding out now for Sasha.

“It’s an orchid,” Marco chimed in, and Sasha, with her eyes full of glee, accepted it, turning it around in her hands carefully, admiring the white, delicate petals.

“You shouldn’t have!” she exclaimed, and Jean almost blurted out ‘Connie told me to’ but quickly banished the thought and shrugged dismissively. “It’s so pretty, thank you.” Then Sasha wrapped herself around the two guys again, pulling them in an endearing yet tight squeeze, balancing the flower in her other hand. Marco was still smiling while Jean fought the urge to snake away from the embrace and hide in the farthest corner in the apartment.

“It symbolizes many things, one of them luxury,” Marco murmured when Sasha let them go, still looking positively gleeful. “In ancient Greece it symbolized fertility, but I just think it’s a pretty elegant flower. Easy to take care of, too.”

“Really, thank you _so_ much,” Sasha chirped, admiring the flower once more before she gestured the guys to follow her to the living room. Marco’s arm slid around Jean’s waist as they did, his fingers feeling the warm skin underneath the hem of his shirt. Jean pretended again like it didn’t make the pit of his stomach coil with numerous feelings, one of them exploding arousal.

Connie was quick to offer them refreshments, shoving a beer in Jean’s hand without even asking. Jean nodded and took a sip, quickly glancing around the room. There were a handful of people and then some, and it seemed that Connie had a different kind of idea about a ‘small get together’ than Jean, who immediately started feeling claustrophobic. Jean should’ve known, after all, this was Connie, the social goddamn butterfly with too many friends and acquaintances.

“What would you like? I have wine, white and red, whichever you prefer,” Connie offered, and Marco raised his eyebrows.

“He doesn’t drink,” Jean said before Marco could, and took another sip of his beer. Connie looked rather surprised, glancing from Jean to Marco, but he quickly swallowed all the questions he had to save them for later when he could pester Jean with them.

“I have mineral water, or, or, or coffee, if you’d like,” he continued, and this time Marco nodded.

“Water’s fine.” He smiled warmly, the hand on Jean’s waist sliding lower, pulling the blonde closer subtly. “Thanks.” Connie’s eyes flickered and lingered and then disappeared along with the rest of the guy as he turned in the direction of the kitchen, and if he saw anything, at least he kept it to himself. He danced through the living room, and Jean used the vacant moment to glance around the room a little better. He had been right; out of the dozen people or so there were mostly couples, a few of them he recognised, but mostly they were boring looking straight people with button-down shirts and dresses that ran down to their knees and hid their shoulders. Jean figured they were people Connie worked with, people Sasha knew from her hobbies or whatever; family people. The kind of people you were supposed to know and spend time with when you got old enough and held a job long enough. They all seemed content in their conversations and none of them even tried to make a closer acquaintance with him and Marco. That was good. Then there were the odd gay couples, the one guy with the fear of ducks and his incredibly tall boyfriend, and then… then there was him and Marco. The weirdest pair of them all. He craned his neck to glance over his shoulder, and somewhere in the back of the room he spotted Eren, sitting in a corner of a couch with a beer in his hand. He had torn off most of the label on the side of it, his fingers still picking at it tirelessly. It wasn’t really annoyance Jean saw in his face before he turned back to Marco, but whatever it was, he didn’t look happy.

And Jean could feel Eren’s eyes burn the skin off his neck, figuratively speaking, not to mention his thoughts were loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room if they stopped to listen. The hairs on the back of Jean’s neck stood up and he sipped his beer, ignoring the feeling, and then Connie was back with them with a fancy glass of carbonated water.

“The flower was really nice,” he spoke, looking at Jean as he extended the glass to Marco. “Sasha loved it. Well done, Jean.”

“Marco chose it,” he murmured, staring down at the bottle in his hand. “Me, I would’ve brought roses but _someone_ tells me they’re not… What was the word you used?” He turned to look at Marco, raising his eyebrows, and the guy squinted at him quickly.

“Appropriate, but I didn’t exactly _forbid_ you to bring them. I just said—”

“ _Apparently_ you can’t bring roses to your friend’s girlfriend without any hidden agenda,” Jean sighed exaggeratedly, which caused the hand on his waist to pinch him through his shirt. He flinched and shot a warning glance at Marco, but the brunette had already moved his attention back to Connie, a playful little glint in the corner of his eye that only Jean could see. Of course Connie had followed them closely, like he probably would for the rest of the evening, his eyes gleaming with something Jean would’ve described as borderline mania, borderline crazy, but maybe it was just curiosity and interest. After all, this was the first time Connie had ever seen Jean this close to another human being on his own will. That’s what Jean figured this was all about, anyway.

“So what do you do, Marco?” And here came the small-talk. Jean concentrated on the bottle in his hand and looked the other way to make sure he wouldn’t have to join the conversation. He gave himself 30 seconds before he would have to excuse himself to go do something else.

“I study law, actually,” Marco said, and in between his words was the Marco that took pride in what he did, even though he hid that side well. He was a modest man, after all. “It’s my second year.” Connie looked impressed as Jean knew he would, and that look meant there was a load of questions added to the list of things he would later bring up with Jean.

“Really? Nice,” he nodded, and Marco shrugged it off hastily like it was nothing. He looked pleased, though. “I thought you might study psychology, too.”

“Right, the… Um, Armin thing.” Marco bit his lip and looked embarrassed in the sweetest and most innocent way. “I’m sorry about that, it was…”

“No, it’s fine,” Connie grinned, waving his hand. “Don’t mention it, really. Figured you had to be a little weird to hang out with Jean.” They both turned to look at Jean who grimaced around his mouthful of beer.

“Gee, thanks,” he grunted, and Marco squeezed his side with a chuckle.

“What do you do?” Marco asked Connie, and the guy shrugged lazily, running his hand over his scalp. “Study, work?” That was about enough for Jean and he emptied his beer, waving the bottle to the two guys.

“’Scuse me,” he cleared his throat and exited the conversation. It wasn’t all bad, though, at least he could leave Marco alone with people without having to worry if he was having fun or not. Right now he was more worried about his own fun-having, and it didn’t help that when he glanced over his shoulder, Eren was sitting still as if carved out of stone, his long nails now having completely destroyed the label on his bottle. Jean bluntly ignored him and strolled to the kitchen and easily helped himself to another beer from the fridge. He didn’t even have to turn around to know that Eren had followed him like a rabid puppy and was now standing in the kitchen too, so he took out another bottle and turning around, extended it to him. Eren walked closer and took it, popping it open and taking a sip. His eyes were intent behind his long lashes and his face was tight with the hundred things he wasn’t saying. Jean figured they’d all come bursting out soon enough.

“Having fun?” he asked airily, smiling wryly. Eren’s fingers wound tighter around the bottle as he took another sip.

“Oh yeah,” he spoke simply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You seem to be enjoying yourself, too.” Jean scoffed, shaking his head.

“Just say what you wanna fucking say.”

“What makes you think I wanna—”

“ _Jesus_ , because I can see right through you, you moron,” Jean snapped. He swore he wasn’t going to get into this with Eren, not now, hopefully never, but the way Eren just _stood_ there and stared at him like Jean _owed_ him something pissed him off. “What is it? Are you jealous? Are you angry at me? ‘Cause I really don’t _care_ , and I’m not gonna—”

“No, of course you don’t,” Eren growled, pointing his finger at Jean. It was steady, unmoving and more annoying than threatening. The blonde flinched at his words and opened his mouth, but Eren was faster, cutting off whatever Jean was going to say. “I don’t think you’re capable of caring about anything or anyone but your own goddamn ass.” For a second Jean just stared at him incredulously, but then he snorted with laughter.

“Oh please,” he sneered, shaking his head again. “Cut the goddamn martyr act.”

“I really—I really don’t understand,” Eren said, and some of the harshness disappeared and he looked honestly confused. “What did I _ever_ do to you? Or do you just really get off treating me like shit?”

“No, you’re just fucking perfect, right?” Jean’s mouth worked faster than his mind, the words dropping out before he even really had time to consider Eren’s words. The thoughts he had been holding onto all this time were bound to come out sooner or later, and somehow this seemed the perfect time to throw them at Eren’s stupid, goddamn oblivious face.

“What does that even mean?” Eren’s voice rose slightly, and he looked quickly over his shoulder to see no one else had heard him. He cleared his throat before he continued. “What are you talking about? I don’t get it.” He spread his hands, his knuckles white from squeezing the cold bottle in his hand. His eyes had widened as he tried to stare Jean down, tried to make him blurt the truth out. He didn’t need to, Jean was already so close to spitting them at him, so close to grabbing the back of Eren’s head and drown him in all the things _he_ had done wrong. Jean wasn’t the only bad guy here, but somehow Eren seemed to have forgotten about that.

“You—,” Jean stopped to lick his lips and he looked past Eren, wondering if instead he should’ve just pushed past him and walked back to Marco. Walk out of the situation and let Eren wallow in it alone.

“What?” Eren pressed. “You don’t even know, do you? You have no real reason to—”

“You had your chance.” This time it was Jean’s voice that rose, and he took a sharp breath, determined to stay composed. He clenched and unclenched his other fist, playing with the words on his tongue. He felt like he was choking on them. “You—you know what, it doesn’t matter—”

“What _chance_?” Suddenly Eren was closer. Jean hadn’t noticed him taking a step forward, his fierce eyes staring up at him, unblinking. “Cut the bullshit, yeah? Can you do that?”

“You had your chance,” Jean repeated, but his voice faltered a little, and he wasn’t as sure about his words as he had been before. “What? You think I’d come running back to you now that you, you, _you’re_ available?”

“Wait,” Eren leaned back, giving Jean a chance to take a deep, shaky breath. He squeezed his hands into fist, his palm damp with sweat. “Come running back to _me_? I don’t—” Then he froze, his mouth still hanging open as it seemed to dawn on him.

“You’re not talking about _Mikasa_ , are you?” he said carefully, and when Jean didn’t respond but only avoided the guy and the question by staring right through him, Eren shook his head. “Shit, are you kidding me? That was over a _year_ ago, and I thought—I mean, _our_ thing, it didn’t _mean_ anything—”

“ _Right_ ,” Jean exclaimed, his tone pitching in frustration, in _humiliation_. “Just like this doesn’t mean anything.” It didn’t, he swore.

“No, _you_ said it didn’t mean anything, those were _your_ words.” Eren shook his head, eyeing Jean. “ _I_ never said it didn’t mean anything, but you—”

“Whatever,” Jean huffed, taking a step back. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“How about,” Eren followed him by taking a step forward, forcing Jean to step back again until his back was against the fridge behind him. “You tell me what the fuck _you_ want from me?”

“Nothing,” Jean said quickly, easily, because it was _easy_ to believe in it.

“Yeah?” Eren murmured, his voice lowering. “So you’re not calling me the second this guy realises what an asshole you are and dumps your ass out on the street?”

“Fuck you,” Jean spat out, leaning his face closer to Eren’s, but the guy didn’t even flinch. He never did, there was nothing Jean could do to throw him off track. He was way too accustomed to all the shit and all the bullshit and all the crap Jean had in store for him.

“You’re just a scared little boy, Jean.” Eren uttered a short, dry laughter. “You’re still exactly the same. I can’t believe it. When are you gonna grow up?”

“You done?” Jean just wanted to get out of the situation, the air around him getting stuffier and stuffier and his breath seemed to get caught in his throat. Eren was shorter than him, but somehow it felt like he was hovering above him, his lean body blocking everything, every source of light around Jean, like a brick wall. Eren stared at him indifferently and shook his head.

“So that’s what this is all about?” he said softly. “Because I left you? I mean I didn’t even _leave_ you because we weren’t anything, but… I had a girlfriend, man.” He shrugged and gaped for a moment, searching for words.

“You’re _mad_ at me because I ended that thing we had?” He clicked his tongue. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

“Because there was nothing to say,” Jean sniffed contemptuously. “You left running and now it’s too late.”

“So why do you keep coming back to me?” Eren’s eyebrows rose and the smile on his lips didn’t reach his eyes even halfway. He spread his hands, waiting for Jean to respond. “I mean, _why_? I’m not chasing you or anything yet I’m constantly finding you behind my door. You know, figuratively speaking.” He smiled a little wider but it faded quickly.

“Because,” Jean leaned closer and licked his lips. His eyes narrowed and so did Eren’s, but he perked up a little, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Jean turned up his nose at him. “You’re easy.” The words came out as a silent hiss, filled with venom that Jean was determined to use to destroy the self-confidence in Eren’s eyes.

“ _Right_ ,” Eren rolled his eyes, still at least partially unfazed. “I’m telling you, you’re the worst liar ever.”

“Just piss off,” Jean spat out, almost pushing the guy out of his way.

“You know what?” Eren asked, shoving his finger against Jean’s chest. The blonde swapped it away immediately, looking even more pissed, more defensive. “You’re full of shit. All of a sudden after all this time you _finally_ tell me you wanted me when you couldn’t have me? I mean…”

“Well you asked,” Jean said. His words made Eren scoff loudly, and he ran his hand through his messy hair, shaking his head. Jean stared at him until he looked up, sighing. “Leave me the fuck alone, Eren. You’re just a way to kill time, nothing more. And you know what, I’m not bored anymore.” Maybe Jean finally found the right words, because Eren’s jaw clenched and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, but he stayed silent. For once. His eyelids flickered as he blinked rapidly, trying to keep the emotions from pouring out of his eyes, whatever they might’ve been. He even took a step back and Jean used the opportunity to push past him and walk out of the kitchen, back to the living room. Eren didn’t follow him immediately, and Jean was more than grateful for that.

Marco had moved on from Connie to a guy Jean didn’t know, and their conversation was heated to say the least, as they both flailed their hands around to add to the rapid explaining of whatever, their faces _wide_ with excitement and enthusiasm. Jean was tempted to go and grab Marco’s ass just to make him yelp, but he didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t drunk enough yet, so he just slid into the conversation, parking himself next to Marco. The other guy glanced at him quickly but didn’t say anything, and Marco was too deep in his current monologue that he didn’t at first register Jean at all.

Only when he stopped to take a breath, he realised Jean was standing next to him. He took a half-step to the side.

“Oh, hi,” he said, a hint of a smile appearing on his face. It wasn’t as friendly as the smile mister stranger with him had gotten, but Jean knew he’d be getting enough after they were out of here.

“Do I know you?” Jean said cheekily, sticking his tongue out at the brunette. Marco swallowed as Jean smirked at him. “Hi.”

“Uh, Jean, this is—” Marco begun and the stranger guy reacted like a jack-in-the-box, his hand springing towards Jean with a smile that was blinding, to say the least. This wasn’t anyone Jean knew so he had to be there with someone, because even Connie couldn’t stand people like him. Pretentious assholes like him. Jean decided immediately he despised the guy.

“Hey, how are you?” The hand stood outstretched, waiting for Jean to respond to the gesture. It was invading and obnoxious and everything that Jean hated, so he stared at it for a moment, waiting it to withdraw but it didn’t, and neither did the smile.

“Hey,” he muttered, and took the hand out of a polite whim. He could do this if he had to. And if the person did introduce himself, Jean didn’t hear him, because the second he let go of the hand, he’d already stopped paying attention.

“Where’s Connie?” he asked Marco, taking a step closer to him, easing his arm around the guy’s waist.

“Oh, uh,” Marco blurted, and his whole body tensed against Jean, and before Jean realised what was happening, Marco had pushed his arm off of him. “He’s upstairs I think. If you, uh, wanna go find him.” It was surreal. Jean wasn’t even sure if what he thought had happened _had_ happened, and he blinked up at Marco, his face scrunching with questions.

“I—I,” he stuttered, and he could swear Marco was pushing him away, subtly, but his hand was on his shoulder and it was nudging him in the opposite direction. “Upstairs?” No, he didn’t want to go find Connie, but Marco nodded at him furiously, encouragingly, and the stranger dude smiled at him too and for a second Jean was sure they were all fucking high and he was the only sober one here.

“Upstairs,” he barked like an idiot and Marco was still fucking nodding so he turned around and walked away, just to make Marco let go of his shoulder and stop bobbing his head up and down so fucking creepily. Jean worried it might’ve come off its hinges if he kept it up long enough. He didn’t know where else to go now that he was moving so he walked out of the living room, dodging the few random people standing in his way, and headed upstairs. He had no business there, he really had nothing to say to Connie, but since Eren was still lingering in the kitchen, and he didn’t want to risk talking to anyone (other than Marco), he couldn’t think of anything else to do. He went up the stairs, the wood creaking under his weight, and walked the narrow hallway to Connie and Sasha’s bedroom door.

The door was slightly open and they were both in there, Connie’s voice a low murmur and Sasha’s giggles bubbly and airy. Jean couldn’t make out the words but the way their voices sounded when they thought no one else could hear or see them made Jean pause outside their door for a second. He listened to Connie’s voice; it was soft, so much softer than it ever was when he spoke to anyone else, so much more emotional, vulnerable even, like he wasn’t afraid of being the person he was with Sasha. It made Jean’s heart ache, just slightly, but it made him think of all those things he knew about Connie and then all the things he really, really did not know. Sasha laughed at something he had said and that was something Jean remembered from years back when the two of them had met; whenever Jean was with them, Sasha laughed. A lot. Connie had the ability to make her laugh like no one’s business and Jean wasn’t even sure if it was because he was funny or if Sasha just really liked to laugh. Sure, Connie was funny when he wanted to be, but their senses of humour didn’t always match.

Even though Connie would never turn him away, even though he _knew_ there was a place for him in there, with him and Sasha, whatever would happen, he also knew that right now there was no room for him. There was Connie, there was Sasha and there was their life, their future, their to-be’s. Their private little bubble that Jean really couldn’t fit in right now.

It was alright, though. He didn’t let it get to him.

As he listened to their voices lowering and the murmurs turning more intimate, more personal, Jean traced his steps back to the stairs. He passed the guest room that he had had the unfortunate fate to become very familiar with. The numerous times he had come to his senses in that room, come down from bad trips, bad choices, bad ideas. If the walls could talk, they would’ve spelled out Jean’s entire life story, and it wouldn’t have been pretty. It would have been desperate, hopeless, no happy endings, just an unbelievable miracle that Jean wasn’t already dead. His parents probably assumed he was, all these years gone and not a single word from him. Jean was struck with a brief thought about if they ever even missed or thought about him.

He wondered if the walls held similar stories for Connie or if he had been able to move past them and pretend the things that had happened simply hadn’t. He wondered if Connie would be able to put his new-born in there and trust that all the dark clouds from Jean’s mind haven’t been absorbed into the wallpaper to then, little by little, rain on the baby.

Gloomy thoughts. Jean wiped them off and walked downstairs and straight to the hallway. He could kill time with at least two cigarettes and then crawl under the kitchen table, and drink until he could to put up with people. There probably wasn’t enough beer in Connie’s fridge for that.

He stared at the flame licking the tip of his smoke for a good while before he let it die, and the first drag was always the best. If he concentrated on these little things, like the smoke coating his throat or the way the sun was crawling behind the horizon, slowly waving its goodbyes to today to greet tomorrow on the other side of the planet, he could pretend he was content. There was no itching under his skin right now, no uneasiness making his stomach coil, no creeping anxieties swinging at the edge of his every thought. It was just… quiet. Peaceful. He knew it never lasted, there would be a new day with new horrors, but right now, right here, he could put it aside and listen to the silence. It was weird, though. A year, maybe two years ago, he had sat on these same steps, trembling, incapable to stop it, no amount of smoke in his lungs able to put a stop to the tremors coming from inside him.

Connie and Sasha had appeared back downstairs when Jean finally crawled back inside. He tried to make it back into the kitchen, but Connie stopped him halfway and forced him to sit down on the couch next to the freakishly tall, sweaty guy whose name Jean couldn’t remember. They glanced at each other, the guy nodding at him and Jean nodding back. Then they fell into silence, filled with other people’s buzzing conversations while Connie fussed around them, shoving drinks in their hands and making sure everyone was in the living room.

Then he cleared his throat and wound his arm around Sasha’s waist, the girl all smiles and glowing happiness. The hum of the crowd slowly ceased until everyone was quiet and staring at the couple standing in the middle of the room, eagerly waiting for Connie to say something. He looked at Sasha who smiled even wider, and Connie cleared his throat again.

“ _So_ ,” he began, and someone sniffed. “We actually have a bit of news.” Sasha bit her lip, and she was playing with the simple, golden ring on her finger, twisting it around nervously. They looked at each other again, Connie’s eyes gleaming as he tried to contain his excitement.

“Some of you already know this,” Connie spoke and looked at Jean when he said it, Jean taking a sip of his beer. “But, um, we’re—”

“ _Pregnant_!” Sasha squealed, and she looked like she might honest to god _burst_ with all the emotions going on in her mind, and if there ever had been doubts about the new human growing inside of her, they were long gone. Her excitement showed nothing more than, well, _excitement_ for the things to come, for the future she would have with Connie. And why wouldn’t she be excited, the future was nothing but an open, calm sea on which she was sailing down with the love of her life.

Some of the people squealed out of surprise and joy and someone rushed to their feet to congratulate the couple, while Jean took another sip of his beer and stopped himself from saying something idiotic like ‘you’re both pregnant?’ He listened to the hustle and bustle, everyone now dancing around Sasha and her invisible belly – ‘it will grow’ – and then he suddenly found himself making eye contact with Marco. The brunette was standing behind a few people, someone talking to him but he wasn’t paying attention because he was looking at Jean, and Jean wanted to look away, he wanted to break the connection and drop his eyes to his lap or wherever else but then Marco smiled at him – very mildly, _carefully_ , and Jean wanted to yell at him through the noise and the people but he didn’t. Above all he felt rejected and humiliated, and he wasn’t used to getting rejected. Humiliated, maybe, but rejected, it felt like a punch in the face and he wasn’t even sure if he deserved it or not. Sure, there were things for which he deserved to get punched for, but he couldn’t find a reason why Marco would do it.

Because suddenly it dawned on him that Marco had pushed him away without a reason and if anything ever had hurt, it was that. If Marco had punched him in the face at least he would’ve had something to respond to, but this was unfair. And now he wouldn’t come to Jean, wouldn’t sit next to him like all the other gross couples around them. Hell, even the only other gay couple were now holding hands and standing close to each other, but Marco stood in place and nothing in his face signalled that he was going to do anything else. Jean didn’t feel like being a mature adult about it, so he got up, and without looking at Marco again, he walked to the kitchen, emptied his bottle and got another beer. He’d deal with this by getting drunk which meant he wouldn’t deal with it, at all.

Eren had vanished somewhere, and Jean thanked the few lucky stars he had for that. He was sure he would’ve punched the asshole in the face if he came anywhere near a 20 feet radius of him. He felt like taking every little, goddamn thing bothering him and punching it out on Eren. And then he was kind of bothered Eren _wasn’t_ there, because this could’ve been a really good opportunity to beat the shit out of him; to make a scene and make Connie kick both of their asses out on the street.

Alcohol it was. And because the kitchen was quiet, empty, the conversations in the other room just a steady, mindless buzz now that he could easily ignore, he flopped on the floor, resting his back against the wall by the fridge. No one would notice him missing, and it wasn’t bitter resentment but a fact. He wasn’t bitter, he was just annoyed and angry that he was sitting here alone and no one even cared enough to notice it.

So maybe he was a little bitter. These were his friends and he had brought Marco here, and now the guy was making friends left and right while he couldn’t even be in the same room with these people without the immediate urge to get hammered rising. Maybe they were more Marco’s type anyway, Jean didn’t really know anyone besides the obvious ones, although he was pretty sure he had met some of them before. He wasn’t bad with faces, he just never cared enough to bother to really look at people properly unless there was something in there for him. Maybe one day his lack of social skills would bite him in the ass when he was an old man and dying, but that was somewhere in the deep future.

The bubbly laughter that couldn’t belong to anyone other than Sasha was loud enough to rise above all the other voices and sounds in the next room. Jean slumped a little more, felt a little gloomier and drank a little more. He might’ve moped some, blowing air into the bottle just to pretend to be too busy to get off the floor and behave like a grown up.

Jean counted, and four, long gulps later Connie’s footsteps led him to the kitchen and he looked rather surprised to see Jean on the floor. At first he just stopped and stared at Jean, his eyebrows high on his forehead like he wanted to ask the most obvious question, but then he seemingly decided this was Jean he was dealing with and this wasn’t exactly unusual.

“Having fun?” he asked instead. Whatever he came to do in the kitchen he omitted and plopped right next to Jean on the floor. Jean shifted a little as if to make room, although there was plenty, and blew into the bottle again.

“Yup,” he mumbled in between breaths. “I have an active imagination, it keeps me busy.”

“So what’re you imagining right now?”

“Someone putting a stake through Eren and then hanging him outside by the hedge.” Connie clicked his tongue and his head bobbed slowly up and down as he nodded.

“I see. A lovely, vivid image.” He sniffed and then, with a sigh, extended his legs on the floor in front of him. “What did he do this time? Apart from existing.”

“No, that’s it. That’s all he did,” Jean hummed casually and peeped in the bottle, shaking the last of the liquid around. Connie sighed in a fatherly manner and made Jean jump slightly by patting him on the shoulder.

“I’ll tell him to stop existing when you’re around, how’s that sound?” he asked, keeping his poker face on as Jean grunted his approval. “Other than that, all good?”

“Super.” He drank the last of the lukewarm beer but held on to the bottle, squinting at the label as if the mysteries of the entire universe were somehow coded in the printed words.

“So, you wanna join us where the magic’s happening?” Connie asked. “And by that I mean the living room.”

“Not really, no,” Jean sniffed, trying the label with his fingernail.

“Why’s that?” Connie asked curiously, his tone light and non-threatening, fitted for a conversation about the weather or something as mind-numbing. Much practised, Jean was sure. It kind of irritated him, but then again, everything irritated him right now. So he silenced the pissy voices in his head and shrugged lethargically. Connie clicked his tongue again, and Jean blew into the bottle to stop himself from snapping at the guy. “Okay, so… You sure all’s good?” The lightness of his voice shook, but it was minor and it didn’t make him appear any less non-threatening. Jean shrugged, but he turned to look at Connie, trying to see if there were any hints on his face of what he was thinking or going to say next. Connie had the tendency to ramble on and then suddenly freak everyone (read: Jean) out by taking the conversation in a grave direction.

Connie just looked at him back, calmly as ever. He was good at playing the dumb card whenever he needed to but Jean wasn’t easily fooled.

“All’s good,” he answered before turning back to his original position. The sounds the bottle made when blown into were starting to annoy even himself.

“So why aren’t you out there glued onto your boyf—your Marco? Friend.” Jean wasn’t sure if the corner of his eye really twitched or not, but it felt like it did, and because he’d already overused shrugging, he cleared his throat and scratched the tip of his nose.

“Maybe later.”

“Jean.” And then it happened, the unavoidable drop in Connie’s voice, when the air got blown out and seriousness swept in to fill the gaps. Jean tried to stop the groan, but it was already half out of his mouth so he saved what was left to save and ran his hand over his face, huffing against his palm. Connie hummed sympathetically. “I hear your sounds of disapproval and I politely choose to ignore them. What’s up?” A soft nudge against his side. Jean felt like a bag of jelly and he feared he might tip over and spill all over the floor if Connie pushed too hard.

“Nothing,” he emphasised the word as best as he could. “Just not in the mood to be social, is all.”

“Why did you come then?” Yes, Connie sounded insulted and just the tiniest bit hurt. Not the kind where he would argue about it or make Jean feel bad, but enough for Jean to feel bad anyway. He closed his eyes slowly and went through all the immediate responses popping in his head and picked the one that was most likely to insult Connie the least.

“Because it’s, because, you know.” He rubbed his face again and sighed in unison with Connie. Then he came up with a new response that would maybe undo some of the harm done. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, ‘kay? Just gimme ten minutes.”

“Marco seems like a good guy,” was what Connie said next. He probably meant it, too.

“I guess,” Jean muttered. He didn’t think Connie paid that much attention to his lame responses anyway.

“He’s a good guy, right?”

“Yeah, I mean,” Jean kept a pause, staring at his hands, his mouth hung open in mid-sentence. “Yeah.”

“I mean,” and Connie sat up a little while Jean slumped even more. “He’s good to you, right?” Jean snorted unwillingly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He didn’t turn to look at the guy who leaned closer to him.

“This, you sitting here,” Connie waved his finger around vaguely. “Has nothing to do with him, right?”

“Right,” Jean echoed hollowly. There was dull nausea piling up in his throat. It wasn’t even the alcohol, it was where he knew this would lead.

“Does it?” Jean stared at his hands so intensely his field of vision dimmed from the edges. Connie almost nudged him again but Jean shrugged before he could.

“No,” he said. He had begun to pick the edges of the label without noticing. Connie had noticed it, though.

“I don’t know him like you do or anything,” he spoke, now staring at Jean’s hands too. “But, uh. If you say he treats you well, I believe you, but I don’t care if he’s a damn angel from the heavens, if he ever makes you feel like shit—”

“Please don’t,” Jean groaned loudly, his cheeks slowly warming up with embarrassment. “Don’t—”

“I’m serious, Jean,” Connie continued stubbornly, bluntly ignoring another noisy groan from Jean. “Don’t throw a tantrum now, but I _worry_ about you—”

“ _Eugh_.”

“—and it’s not like I don’t know you can take care of yourself, but you know how it goes.”

“Nope,” Jean responded just as stubbornly and even more obnoxiously, and this time Connie nudged him. He didn’t tip over and spill all over the floor, though.

“Just don’t think you don’t deserve anything better than the first good thing that comes your way.” Connie’s seriousness made Jean shudder.

“Bleh,” he grimaced.

“I will punch you in the face,” Connie stated and Jean cracked a half a smile, which made Connie smile too. “Seriously though, you better get off your ass and stop moping around.”

“I’m not moping.”

“You have ten minutes, no more, no less, unless you feel like you’re ready in seven minutes, in which case…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jean agreed obediently. He would, really.

“Good.” Connie sounded satisfied. He got up from the floor and glanced down at Jean while getting something from the fridge above him. “Really, he seems like a great guy. He better _be_ one, too, or I’ll have a word with him.” Jean muttered something unprintable under his breath, but Connie was already away from the hearing range to pick it up.

Connie gave him his ten minutes’ worth of time to drink more and determinedly tear the labels off the bottles. He expected Connie to pop in the kitchen anytime to kick him up, and so he prepared himself mentally to be social, to be at least tolerable, forcing his face to stay in a harmless little smile. Somehow it was harder when he wasn’t getting paid for it, but since Connie was nice enough to let him drink without saying anything about it, he would be nice enough to maybe even strike up a small conversation with someone. Safe subjects included the weather, Sasha’s pregnancy and children generally. He could maybe even talk about politics if no one forced him to express any personal opinions.

Connie never came, though, but Marco did. He found Jean safely slumping on the floor, picking the label angrily because it was too tightly glued on the bottle.

“Hey,” Marco greeted him, and Jean glanced up at him but didn’t say anything. “Connie said you were looking for me?”

“No I wasn’t,” Jean responded and tore off a piece of the paper. He almost celebrated it out loud but then he remembered Marco, and turned to look up at him. He didn’t have to say anything because Marco was already lowering next to him, sitting on the same spot Connie left.

“What are you doing?” he asked, smiling. Jean set the bottle on the floor on his other side, away from Marco, and shrugged.

“Oh you know,” he begun. “Sitting alone, getting drunk. Alone.” Marco shifted at his side, scooting a little closer, and he searched for Jean’s hand with his own. Jean and the devil in him snapped his hand away, Marco’s hand lingering in the air for a second before he pulled it back, too.

“Oh,” Marco mouthed.

“Yup.” Jean examined his fingernails. If he did act like a huge brat, at least Marco didn’t mention it. He didn’t get up or leave, either, and Jean was willing to try how far he could push Marco’s limits. Misery really did love company in his case.

“Are you mad at me?” Marco sounded sincere, like he really did believe that could be a possibility. Jean picked at the skin around his nails and stayed quiet until Marco leaned closer to him and nudged him softly. “Jean?”

“Why did you push me away?” He tore off a small piece of his skin and kept picking, waiting for Marco to deny it and tell him he was reading too much into things. It wouldn’t have been a first time someone invalidated all his feelings and told him he was on the wrong. He knew he was, but thanks to the alcohol, he was brave enough to poke the bear with a stick and a knife tied on the other end of it.

“Jean…” Marco tried to take his hand again, but Jean refused.

“Why didn’t you want to talk to me?” he asked. He heard Marco take a deep breath and hold it, then blow the air out slowly. Now, now he would hear about how he was reading too much into things, how he was wrong about this and how no such thing ever happened.

Marco was quiet for a while.

“I, uh, I…” he coughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I, I do want to talk to you.” It sounded like a pity offering, like Jean indeed was a kid throwing a tantrum because he wasn’t getting enough attention.

“Yeah? You couldn’t get me away from you fast enough.” This time Jean admitted to the bitter resentment. He took the bottle and drank in a fast pace.

“No,” Marco protested softly. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t you, it’s…”

“You’re not gonna seriously gimme the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ shit? I swear to god, Marco,” Jean scoffed. Marco shook his head and he ran the backside of his hand against Jean’s arm, but he didn’t try to catch his hand this time.

“No, no,” he murmured quickly. “I, uh. Look.” And he sighed, the sound heavy.

“It’s not…” He swallowed thickly. “It’s not that easy for me. I’m sorry.”

“The fuck are you even talking about?” Jean grunted. His head was slowly getting foggy and concentrating on the way Marco spoke was getting difficult. He felt like he had missed some vital piece of information everyone else probably knew about.

“This,” Marco responded, but it didn’t help Jean understand any better. He licked his lips and swallowed again. “Being here with, with you. So openly.” If the rejection felt like a punch in the face, this felt like a stab in the gut.

“You’re welcome to fuck off if you’re that embarrassed to—”

“ _No_ ,” Marco rushed to cut him off. “No, that’s not what I meant! I mean—” Jean jumped up as fast as he could, his mind spinning around a few times and he sought for balance. Marco moved more effortlessly and he stood up too, to face Jean.

“Listen,” he said, and Jean ran his hand over his face, suddenly too tired to argue or to try and make Marco feel like shit. “It has nothing to do with _you_ , but I—I, it’s difficult for me. I thought I could do it, I mean, these people—”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” If it wasn’t for the wide-eyed, scared bambi look Marco gave him, Jean wouldn’t have realised he was shouting. Unfortunately for the both of them, he didn’t really care right now.

“I’ve never held hands with anyone in public,” Marco blurted; his face now twisted in a pained expression like saying the words hurt him _physically_. “I never even _hugged_ Armin, my ex publicly. I couldn’t do it and I, I thought this would be different, that I could do this, but I can’t and I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.” He swallowed something heavy that made his jaw clench and his eyelids fluttered as he kept himself from getting too emotional. Jean just stared at him, unsure of what to say next.

“I’m sorry, Jean,” Marco kept going. “It, it, it makes me anxious, I’m sorry, I don’t do it on purpose.”

“When we came in—”

“ _I know_ ,” Marco cried out, his shoulders tense, and he wrapped his arms fast around himself. “I tried, I, I really tried, but when you left, I just… I felt like… I don’t want people to look at me and…”

“And what? What does it _matter_ what those assholes think or say? You’re never gonna see them again anyway.” Jean was borderline angry with Marco and he borderline pitied the guy, but he also felt humiliated, and no amount of puppy eyes or sob stories were enough to convince him to be the bigger person here. It seemed that there was always someone whose feelings were more important than Jean’s, and it was really getting on his nerves.

“I know that, too.” Marco’s voice sounded calmer, but he was still tensed up, and his eyes were avoiding Jean now. They were glued somewhere on the floor, past Jean, and his eyebrows were twisted in a pained expression. “I don’t do it on purpose, Jean. I’m sorry, I really want to be here with you but—”

“But you can’t have anyone knowing you’re a _fag_.” The word was like poison on Jean’s tongue, assured to make both of them feel ill and betrayed. Maybe Jean even more than Marco, although the guy winced visibly, so it could have been either way. Jean could’ve sworn the guy shrunk at least a couple of inches, but he didn’t try to deny it or try to correct Jean.

Of course he didn’t. This was what it was all about.

More than getting rejected, it hurt Jean that the guy didn’t even try to fight back. He should’ve fought back.

“Why did you even come?”

“Because I wanted to come and I wanted to be here with you.” Marco finally let go of himself, his arms falling on his sides uselessly. He rubbed the back of his neck, and raised his gaze to meet Jean’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I understand if you want me to go.”

“No, yeah, go ahead, make yourself the fucking victim here won’t you? Don’t go, everyone already fucking _loves_ you.” He was unfair. He knew it. No one was going to make him feel better about anything, so he was going to make everyone miserable. “You know what, go back there and make _friends_ , I won’t ruin your illusion. And hey, maybe if you try _real_ hard, one day you’ll wake up straight and you won’t have to deal with this again.”

“I’m sorry.” Marco spoke so quietly Jean almost didn’t hear him. “Please don’t be mad at me.” Jean gritted his teeth together to fight back an impulse to hit something and hard. He ran his hands over his face, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes. Whatever he was to say, he would be the bad guy here. He couldn’t kick a puppy that was almost crying now. Maybe someone would’ve cared about his feelings if he had cried and whimpered, too.

“I need a smoke,” he finally concluded, sighing heavily. Marco nodded weakly as if Jean really gave a shit whether it was okay with him or not, and he walked out of the kitchen. He made it to the hallway without anyone getting in his way and without bothering with shoes, he just rummaged for a cig from his jacket pocket and slammed the front door shut behind him with slightly too much force.

His hands were trembling, something he hadn’t noticed before. When the goddamn lighter didn’t start working immediately, the final straw finally snapped in Jean’s brain and he threw the piece of plastic on the ground, where it bounced off, a piece from the corner chipping. And if Jean hadn’t been so goddamn desperate for a smoke, he wouldn’t have swallowed his hurt pride and picked the thing off the ground.

He managed the shaking of his hands enough to get the lighter working, but nothing about the cigarette made anything better. It just made him angrier because it was quiet outside and the image of Marco looking like a hurt fucking puppy was circling in his drunken brain now that there were no outside stimuli. He was so fucking angry, he felt so fucking betrayed and hurt, and he was sure Connie would be on him the second he’d get back inside, asking him questions that would make him even angrier.

The front door opened and someone came outside. Every muscle in Jean’s body tensed and he took a long drag of his smoke. The person didn’t approach him, so Jean risked a glance over his shoulder.

“What the hell are you staring at?”

It had been such a horrible idea to come here at all. They could’ve stayed in bed the whole night and everything would’ve been easy and painless and alright. Jean could’ve lived with the assumption that he wasn’t on the same line with the fucking blue-eyed blondie Marco had been so in love with once in his life. Jean could’ve lived under the assumption that this was different than that.

Eren stared at him in the dying light of the evening, his eyes dark and resentful.

Jean threw the cigarette on the ground as Eren repeated the question with even more scorn. Jean didn’t say anything and he almost, _almost_ made it past the guy and to the front door without problems.

If it hadn’t been for the ‘ _prick’_ Eren muttered from between his lips, Jean would’ve gone back inside. Hell, if it hadn’t been for the train wreck of an evening, he could’ve ignored it and gone back inside.

But today the stars weren’t favourable and Jean stopped in his tracks. He stood still and listened to the steady flow of his thoughts. Eren didn’t say much more, he was standing with his back to Jean, on the last stair, Jean a few steps above him. He had never been as indifferent about Jean as he was now.

Jean backed down a couple of steps and gave Eren a forceful shove on his back. He was pleased when the guy stumbled forward, cussing, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy the burning bloodlust in his veins. He jumped off the stairs and walked to the guy who was just straightening up, seeing Jean walking to him and trying to dodge his fist, but was about a half a second late.

He hit Eren on the side of his face, his knuckles brushing just past the corner of his eye. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it made Eren grunt loudly and stumble backwards a few steps. Jean was a piss poor fighter, he could defend himself if necessary but this wasn’t defending, this was just mindless violence. All he wanted was to get a few punches in, maybe give Eren a black eye to take home or a bloody nose. He charged after the guy but Eren was already expecting him, expecting the next punch which he avoided by inches. He responded by throwing his own fist straight into Jean’s jaw. Jean’s teeth clicked together with a snap and before he could completely clear his head through the stinging pain, Eren hit him again, this time on the side of his torso. He tried to block Eren, but the guy was fast enough to get a third punch in on his other side, then threw his other arm around Jean’s neck and forced him down with a choke hold.

Jean was mad. He was so fucking mad and his jaw throbbed and Eren had him bent over now and was trying to throw Jean on the ground, but he clung onto Eren’s shirt where he could reach to grab it, and tried to hit the guy anywhere, weakly swinging his fist around and punching him in the ribs.

“ _Fucking let go of me_.” Some of the anger in his voice got muffled when Eren kneed him in his ribs and yanked him forward, his balance finally giving out as the unexpectedly strong arm wound tighter around his throat and then let go completely. He fell to the ground, extending his hands to stop him falling on his face. Before Eren had a chance to kick him, he stumbled up and jumped at Eren, shouldering the guy to the ground. Eren pulled him down, too, and they both crashed on the driveway, all hands and legs and grunting and bungled punches. They rolled on the ground, Eren’s hand behind Jean’s neck, his fingers sinking into his skin as he tried to wreck the guy, neither of them quite sure _how_ , and Jean had his arm hooked under Eren’s other knee. Eren kept smacking the top of his head and Jean kept cursing at him out loud, his voice jumbled up with Eren’s angry shouting.

After a few rolls on the gravel they ended up on the cold, moist lawn when Eren finally got the upper hand as he ended on the top of Jean, sitting on his chest, holding down his flailing arms.

“ _Fuck you_!” Jean screamed, his voice choked by Eren’s weight on his lungs. He tried to hit the guy somewhere, anywhere, and Eren just stared down at him with a calm expression hinting of insanity until he finally started pinning Jean’s wrists down to the ground. He forced Jean’s other arm against the ground, the other still fighting back and Jean was squirming under him, still amazed how much Eren seemed to weigh even though he was smaller in size than Jean.

Jean was so fucking angry and the second he let it blind him was the second Eren let go of his other wrist and used the opportunity to hit him square in the face. He didn’t hit hard, but hard enough for his knuckles to split the corner of Jean’s upper lip against his teeth.

The metallic taste of blood spilt between his teeth and before he even properly registered it, Eren hit him again, more blood bursting from the open wound.

For a second he was sure Eren was going to beat him until he’d lose count and it raised a crippling panic in him.

But after the second punch that left a throbbing ache travelling through his jawbone, Eren let go of him and pushed himself on his feet, not even looking at Jean. He wiped dirt off his jeans and straightened his shirt, already walking away like nothing had happened.

Jean stumbled up, his head spinning and ears humming, and through his hazy vision he fixated on Eren and hurried after the guy. He had stopped thinking clearly long ago and when he reached Eren by the stairs, he grabbed his arms from behind and yanked him back. Eren yelped and tried to push Jean’s hands off of him while elbowing him on the shoulder, but Jean dragged him backwards and tried to throw him off balance. Eren was much harder to shake than Jean had thought, though, and he kept fighting back, trying to snake out of his embrace.

“Do I have to break your fucking nose?!” Eren yelled, but Jean ignored him, kicking his other leg from under him, finally getting the guy to stumble and fall, but he hang onto Jean’s arm and he stumbled, too, barely keeping himself up. He tried to shake Eren off by dragging him along the road, all the while Eren tried to get his feet under him, his nails sinking into the flesh of Jean’s arm.

Only when Jean placed his foot on Eren’s shoulder and shoved him did the guy let go, but he was back on his feet quickly, and Jean tried to swing a punch at him the second he straightened up.

Eren must’ve seen it coming because he managed to dodge it and then they were wrestling again, angry curses and huffs occupying the air around them as they jerked each other around, both trying to get the other in a chokehold or on the ground.

Both of them were too preoccupied with each other to notice the door opening, and their first clue that someone was out was when the person grabbed Jean by the shoulder and separated the two, stepping in between them to break all physical contact. It was Marco, and he pushed Jean gently but surprisingly firmly backwards and turned to Eren, pointing his index finger at the guy.

“You stay there,” he spoke with authority that actually stopped Eren on his feet. His voice was tight, determined, and when he turned back to Jean, the blonde could see the disappointment in his face even in the twilight of the night. Jean wanted to point out a thousand things that gave him no right to look at Jean like that, but then the front door opened again, with much, _much_ more disappointment this time and Jean didn’t even have to turn around to see it was Connie.

“What the _fuck_ is going on out here?” He managed to keep his voice low enough to make it seem like he wasn’t about to burst out of his goddamn skin, but he was angry. And Jean was about to blame it all on Eren, but Connie smacked him on the back of his head like he was twelve years old and caught doing something he shouldn’t have, and he yelped.

“Goddamn it,” he blurted, rushing to run his hand over the sting, but the look on Connie’s face made everything else he was going to say die right then and there.

“If you two are going to act like fucking kids I’m gonna treat you like ones,” he grumbled, and Eren had the good sense to take a few steps back when he approached the guy. Connie gave him a warning shove on his chest, pointing his finger at his face. Marco followed them silently by Jean’s side, his face was stern like that of a father’s scolding their kid, and it made Jean feel guilty and small.

It wasn’t fair. Jean refused to be blamed for this.

“What the _hell_ is wrong with you two?” Connie continued, turning to look at Jean standing a few feet further. “Jesus, I can’t believe this. You’re both _idiots_.”

“Sorry,” Eren mumbled, and Connie glanced at him. Then he looked at Jean again.

“Your lip’s bleeding, for god’s sake.” Jean felt the corner of his mouth with his tongue, the lip swollen and sore, and he wiped some of the blood off quickly with his knuckles. “Care to explain what the hell happened here?” Connie’s voice was already getting softer along with the expression on his face. He could be angry only for so long, and eventually his conflict-avoiding nature came through and he calmed down. Jean dared a quick glance at Eren past Marco, but the guy was staring at his feet, and something told Jean he wouldn’t look at him ever again.

“Nothing,” Eren murmured. He realised Jean wasn’t going to say anything, and even though he could be brash, he didn’t want to piss Connie off. He couldn’t have given less fucks about whether Jean wanted to have a fight with the guy, but he wasn’t going to be pulled into it. So he kept his head down and looked remorseful.

“How about you, Jean? Got anything to say?”

Well it wasn’t _his_ fault, not entirely anyway. But once the heat of the moment cooled off and the anger started subsiding, even he knew well enough to keep his mouth shut.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes on the ground now, too.

“You should be. You’re lucky it was me and not Sasha, she wouldn’t have put up with this.”

“I know, I know,” he grunted. “But why are you blaming it all on me?”

“I’m not blaming anything on anyone,” Connie said patiently. “You’re both equally idiots.”

“Clearly you are, you keep talking to _me_ ,” Jean protested.

“I’m talking to you both.” Connie’s eye twitched at the way Jean was talking back to him.

“But you’re looking at me.” Connie licked his lips, an exasperated sigh escaping from between them.

“Jean,” he started, and it sounded like a warning. It sounded like a suggestion to back off and not go down this road, and Jean really, _really_ had to fight to keep all the stupid, brash, angry remarks back. “Let’s not do this, okay? I’m blaming both of you, _equally_ , so… Let’s not do this, alright?” Connie and his infinite patience. Jean bit his tongue and kept his mouth glued shut, although he felt provoked enough to make this into a huge fight that he would regret in the morning. Connie stared at him for a moment, maybe waiting for a response or a lashing out, but when none happened, he nodded shortly.

“I’m going in. You two better stay away from each other for the rest of the night.” He glanced at Eren, but like before, his eyes returned to Jean. Yeah, he was definitely blaming Jean for this. “If you fight again, I’m kicking you two out of my house. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Jean and Eren both responded, their voices low and ashamed. Connie nodded again and then he walked back inside, Eren following his steps with his head still held low, and he didn’t even raise his gaze as he passed Jean, who stared at him until he disappeared inside after Connie.

The whole time Marco had stood in place, silent, unmoving, just following the quarrel from the side. Jean had absolutely no idea what to say to the guy. He wasn’t sure he wanted to say _anything_. He crossed his arms against his chest, his hands cold against his own skin, and when he did, Marco moved next to him and shook himself out of his jacket, and placed it on Jean’s shoulders. His hands were gentle, considerate, and they lingered longer than was necessary. Jean felt their warmth through the fabric.

Something got caught in his throat.

“You want to go inside?” Marco asked carefully because he probably knew Jean all too well by now.

“Not really,” Jean muttered. He didn’t shake the jacket off, but he didn’t do much else, either. It smelled like Marco and Jean hated the effect it had on him. The whole deal with the guy had sneaked up on him insidiously, he hadn’t meant for this to happen. He hadn’t thought he would actually start giving a shit about the guy or about whether he was near or not, but here he was, starving for attention, starving to be understood inside out without having to actually explain anything.

“Jean,” Marco’s voice came softly, and the once gone hand came back to rest on his shoulder, the squeeze it gave him was nothing if not reassuring. Jean let his eyes slide closed and he held onto the stubbornness and didn’t turn to look at or answer the guy. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” Jean replied.

“I don’t know what else to say,” Marco spoke, swallowing around the words. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jean blurted, but he didn’t know how to continue the thought. Instead he sighed heavily, kept his eyes closed for a moment longer and then opened them.

“Jean…”

“I don’t know what you want from me. I’m sick of skirting around other people’s goddamn issues, I’ve got enough of my own to worry about.” It was unfair, again. Of course he was well aware of the way he had made other people suffer from _his_ issues, the same issues he had brought upon Marco’s doorstep and into his life, but then again, no one had forced Marco to stay. Just like no one was forcing Jean to stay now. But he wanted to stay. He really, really wanted to stay. “Look, just do whatever, I don’t care. Let’s just go inside.” And he shrugged the jacket off and extended it to Marco, daring to steal a glance of him. The guy took it, hesitantly, and what Jean saw flashing on his face was probably the hurt of rejection, or what Marco took as rejection, the big hypocrite, but he didn’t voice it out loud. He just pulled the jacket on and sighed silently, his shoulders hunching the slightest.

“Jean, please, just—just talk to me.”

“About _what_ , huh? What the hell do you want me to say?” Jean huffed in frustration, and just like he assumed, Marco didn’t have the answers for him, not right away. He looked lost, trying to figure out the magic words to say to make all this go away.

“I didn’t mean to… to hurt you, or to make you feel like…”

“Yeah, but see,” Jean scoffed. “That’s the thing. You don’t mean to do a lot of things but you do them anyway. I know my feelings don’t matter, everything’s my fault somehow anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” Marco shook his head, his eyebrows sticking together. “Of course they matter.”

“Right, yeah, whatever,” Jean shrugged apathetically. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. You’re too comfy in your little closet, who am I to try and force you out of it.”

“That’s not fair,” Marco protested, the calmness in his voice wavering and his face scrunching up. “I don’t _like_ this and I don’t do it on purpose, you don’t understand—”

“Oh, _I_ don’t understand?!” Jean uttered a mocking laugh. He threw his hands in the air as a sign of frustration. “Because coming out was so goddamn easy for me, how could _I_ possibly understand.”

“And yet you go out of your way to make me feel guilty about this.” Marco looked firm and Jean realised he was right. He swallowed and looked away, a sting in his pride burning painfully.

“Okay. Fine. You’re right,” he spoke after a short silence, but it didn’t ease the look on Marco’s face. “I just… I thought…”

“What?” Marco asked. Jean took a deep breath, and as he blew it out slowly, he stared somewhere past Marco.

“I just thought that, I don’t know, with me you wouldn’t worry so much about what other people think.” Jean chuckled, another dry, mocking laugh, and he shook his head. “I guess I’m pretty fucking naïve, huh.”

“But I don’t,” Marco begun softly. “I _don’t_ worry when I’m with you. Jean, you’re the best thing that has happened to me in a long time.”

“Your life must really suck, then,” Jean grunted, pretending like the way Marco spoke didn’t make his insides burst with thrill. Marco chuckled.

“Look, when I’m with you, I don’t worry about anything. Not my parents, or school, or other things that keep me up at night. With you… with you, it’s easier to breathe.” Jean didn’t know what to do with himself, so he crossed his arms across his chest, keeping them tightly against himself, staring at any other direction that wasn’t Marco. “I mean it. And I’m sorry for making you go through this, you don’t deserve it. I just… I just need time.”

“For what?” Jean mumbled. Marco shrugged, the motion hasty and telling in so many ways. Of course he didn’t know.

“I don’t know. To… to gather courage I suppose.” Marco sighed and ran his hand through his hair.

“Look, I’m not gonna make you do something you don’t wanna do,” Jean shrugged, too, still avoiding direct eye contact with Marco. He felt exhausted, ready to make up just so he could go on and pretend none of this had happened.

“Jean…”

“What?” he mumbled.

“I love you. And I promise to make this up to you somehow.” Marco said the words like they were the easiest thing in the world, like he wasn’t aware of the fire they lit in Jean, who felt the burn on his skin, his face getting warmer by the second. He felt strangely exposed, and as he bit his lips and hoped Marco wouldn’t take his lack of response the wrong way, he cleared his throat.

“Can I just ask you one question?” He wasn’t sure how he got to thinking about it, maybe it was just his avoidant nature to turn this kind of attention away from himself as fast as possible.

“Of course.”

“You, uh, mentioned your parents and I, um. Have you talked to them?” Jean finally stopped hiding and looked at Marco, who in turn looked like Jean had just asked him to take off his pants and dance salsa or something. The obvious shift in his posture surprised Jean a little.

“No,” he answered shortly, bluntly.

“Your mom’s gonna worry you’re dead or something soon,” Jean cracked a dumb smile, trying to ease Marco out of his shell where he had withdrawn. He didn’t even smile.

“She won’t. Mina has made sure of that.” He spoke stiffly, and if Jean hadn’t known the context, he would’ve guessed someone had just insulted Marco gravely by calling his mom a donkey or something.

“I was just kidding, Marco,” Jean tried, but Marco didn’t look amused. He was completely serious now, _dead_ serious, even, and there were warning bells in Jean’s mind going off alright, but something made him ask anyway. “So when are you gonna talk to her? Your mom, I mean.”

“I don’t know. Not today.” Jean snorted.

“Funny.”

“I’d rather not talk about it if you don’t mind,” Marco said monotonously.

“If I don’t mind? Jesus, even when you’re trying to tell me to piss off you’re so goddamn polite.”

“I’m not trying to tell you to piss off. I just rather we didn’t talk about it right now.” He was tense, uncomfortable. It was like a neon sign across his forehead, which didn’t quite hide how his jaw clenched involuntarily, his whole body closing up to reject whatever Jean was going to say. While Jean had let his arms drop from around himself, Marco had crossed his across his chest now, and he looked pained.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Jean scoffed, and even though Marco flinched, he didn’t take it back. “You’re constantly going ‘come on Jean, talk to me’, and now you’ve got the nerve to tell me you don’t wanna talk about it?”

“Why do you care so much about my parents?” Marco sounded defensive, his voice higher than usually. It only made Jean want to push harder.

“I don’t give a shit about them, but this whole thing you’ve got going on,” Jean made a vague motion with his hand, trying to sum up whatever it was that Marco was dealing with. “It doesn’t seem very, I dunno, healthy.”

“Oh, healthy?” Marco huffed, his voice pitching, and Jean was beginning to see the end of Marco’s patience. It was right behind the throbbing vein on his temple. “Why do you care? It’s my problem, not yours, and I’ll deal with it.”

“Wow,” Jean said with a husky voice. The intensity of Marco’s defensiveness was more than he could have anticipated. “That’s harsh.”

“I told you I don’t want to have this conversation now. Please.” Marco sighed, trying to coax Jean. “Can we just go inside and have a nice night?” He was so naïve.

“Nice night?” Jean blurted, a little more dismissively than he meant to. “No, see, you’re gonna have a nice night while I’m gonna get drunk, _alone_ , because I’m not gonna force you to spend the night with me since we’ve already established that you can’t do it.”

“That’s not fair!” Marco’s voice rose significantly and his arms dropped to his sides, tensing from his fingertips to his shoulders. “I only told you I don’t want to talk about my parents right now, and you just right on attack me like that?”

“I’m not attacking you, but that’s how it’s gonna go and you know it.”

“I said I was sorry, I don’t know what more to say or do.”

“So I have no right to feel hurt because you’re _sorry_? Great, just punch me in the face and tell me you’re sorry and everything’s fine, right?”

“First of all,” Marco’s voice lowered, the tone something Jean had never heard before. “I didn’t hurt your feelings on purpose, and _yes_ , of course you have every right to feel hurt. But right now it seems to me like you just want to argue with me for no reason, no matter how many times I apologise.”

“It pisses me off you won’t talk to _me_ after you’ve made me talk to _you_ so many times.” He swallowed shakily, his eyes bouncing on Marco’s face relentlessly, and Marco stared at him, his pupils dilated and his usually welcoming face was rejecting, hard, downright hostile.

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, I just don’t want to do it _now_ , not about this subject.”

“Right,” Jean scoffed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he leaned back. He shook his head. “I bet you talk to that ex of yours about everything. It’s not the subject, it’s _me_ , isn’t it.” It felt like Marco was personally taking Jean and pushing him out, locking the door and leaving him out to die alone. He really didn’t give a shit about his parents or the subject per se, but he was _hurt_ Marco wouldn’t talk to him. After all the things he had told him about himself, Marco refused to talk to Jean about this one thing he asked?

“You’re not making any sense,” Marco said, his voice filled with annoyance or frustration or both, and it was overflowing, every word drowning in it. Or maybe he was fed up with Jean, maybe he was about to turn around and walk away, and Jean wasn’t going to run after him, that was for sure. “I haven’t even mentioned Armin in this conversation, not once, how did you even come up with that?”

“Whatever,” was Jean’s initial reaction, and Marco shook his head, and it pissed Jean off so much.

“Why do you insist on arguing with me?” he asked. He sounded distant, out of Jean’s reach. He was already at his limits with Jean even though he still tried to meet him halfway.

“Whatever,” Jean said again. “I’m going inside. You can fuck off for all I care.”

He didn’t mean it. Of course he didn’t, but he was still too proud. He wasn’t going to apologise for this, not when he had done nothing wrong. He turned around and started walking, and he heard Marco huff at him.

“Jean,” he said, and when Jean didn’t stop or even slow down, he huffed again. “ _Jean_.”

“ _What_?” he turned around on his heels with a snap, the annoyance he felt mirrored in Marco’s face.

“I haven’t talked to my mom because I can’t lie, and you know what the first thing she will ask me will be? Right after we get over the ‘how have you been’ and ‘how are your studies’, she’s going to ask me ‘Marco, are you a homosexual’ and I cannot _lie_ to her, so no matter what I do, whatever I say, she’s going to see right through me. And you know what she will tell me? She’s going to tell me, ‘Marco, you know we only want the best for you. We want you to be happy. We want you to have grandchildren for us, you know it’s your responsibility to carry on the Bodt name’. And we both know I can’t do that unless I marry a nice girl, someone my parents approve of. And she’s going to tell me, ‘if you can’t do that, I’m afraid we won’t be able to support your lifestyle anymore’. I owe them everything I have, _everything_ , Jean. I have—I have _nothing_ on my name, I barely own the clothes I have on me and even they, even _they_ were paid with my parents’ money. They’ve paid for everything; my apartment, my education, my, my… I don’t have _anything_. I owe them _everything_. And if I disappoint them, if I fail to be the son they want me to be, they will cut me off and I’ll not only be homeless, I won’t have a single penny on me and I—I can’t do that, Jean. I, I need to finish my studies, I need to graduate so I can get a job and finally start living my own life like I want to live it.” He stopped to draw in a breath that made him shake to his core. “She already knows but we both keep up appearances for each other’s sake, but when she asks, I won’t be able to lie, and I can’t—I can’t deal with that. You have no—or maybe you do, maybe you know how it feels but I’m not like you, I’m not strong enough to deal with the consequences. I can’t cut them out of my life, I want them to be proud of me. I just, I just need to—” And even though he tried, he couldn’t come up with anything to end the sentence with. He could come up with nothing because he knew there wasn’t a simple solution to it. There was no _just_ , there was the whole nine yards and then some, there was the earthquake and there was the aftershock, and Marco wasn’t prepared for any of it. He didn’t want to be, he wasn’t the kind of man to rock the boat even if it was filled with rats that were bound to sink the whole goddamn thing. He’d rather sink and drown than cause waves where there shouldn’t be waves.

Jean swallowed, a lump the size of his fist stuck in his throat, and he stared at Marco. He stared as the guy deflated like a balloon, still holding himself together even though his shoulders hunched and he looked incredibly small and incredibly fragile under the starless sky.

Jean didn’t know what to do. Marco, after staring at the ground between them for so long eventually lifted his gaze, and he was waiting for Jean to say something.

He didn’t want to sink in the pit where his only company was utter hopelessness and defeat. He wanted Jean to stop it, even though he didn’t know how to stop it himself.

“I’m sorry, Marco,” Jean mumbled, and it felt like a lie. “Look—”

“Please, please don’t tell me it’ll be fine. Please.”

“I wasn’t gonna,” Jean responded. “I… I don’t know what to say, honestly. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything.” They both knew he was lying, but he was just too nice to say anything else. Jean would’ve cracked his head open in search for the right words to say, but he didn’t think he even knew such words. He fidgeted, playing with the hem of his shirt.

“Can I… can I ask how she knew? I mean you said she knows, and just—”

“I told her.” The bitter resentment, the _regret_ in Marco’s voice made Jean want to punch something or someone. It didn’t belong in Marco or in his voice. “When… At the charity event… I…”

“When you got drunk,” Jean said, the whole thing dawning on him now.

“Yes.” Marco uttered a dry, lifeless laugh, trying to hide himself and his shame behind it. “So apparently I told her, or someone, and she overheard, I don’t know the details. Mina… Mina told me and I…” His voice cracked and he hid his eyes behind his hand, rubbing his forehead slowly.

“Look…” Jean tried. “Maybe you, I don’t know, I… I’m, I’m sorry Marco.”

That’s all he could say. He was sorry, he really was. The hurt radiating off the guy, it made Jean’s chest hurt, it made his heart break in ways it had never been broken before.

“Thanks,” Marco said monotonously, his face blank as his arm dropped to his side. He looked so _tired_ , exhausted, worn out. Jean couldn’t shake off the feeling this was all his fault, he had brought this upon them both, there should’ve been a way for him to fix the guy, to fix this situation.

But right then and there, they stood galaxies apart and Jean remembered he didn’t even know how to fix his own messes.

“Look, let’s just go inside and get drunk, both of us, and pretend everything’s fine and then have sex all night long, yeah? Let’s just—”

“No, it’s fine, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home now.” Marco smiled. It was a forced, stiff smile, but it was on his face and Jean wanted to wipe it off. “I’m tired and I—”

“Yeah, okay, we can do that, lemme just get my stuff and—”

“You can stay, you don’t have to—”

“I don’t wanna stay, I wanna go with you,” he stopped Marco stubbornly. “If you’re going, I’m going too.” Marco blinked, slowly, and his eyes looked puffy, like there were tears right behind them, just waiting for the chance to get out. There was no clue on his face of what he was thinking, and since he stayed quiet, Jean nodded his head as if responding to the things Marco didn’t say.

“Lemme just get my stuff and we can go, yeah?” His eyebrows rose in hope Marco would nod, say yes, give any indication that yes; this was what they were going to do. “Yeah?” His voice pitched in desperation. He didn’t want to go inside and then come back out to find Marco gone. This was no unpredictable romantic movie, there were no guaranteed happy endings, not for them anyway, and Jean wasn’t going to let this one good thing in his life get ruined or run away, not now.

“Yeah?” he tried one last time. Marco’s mouth was a tight, thin line, and Jean knew he was holding something back. And he blinked again, no tears, his eyes staying closed for a moment.

“Yeah,” he finally said. Jean smiled at him out of a moment’s courage, out of relief. He turned around to go inside, but then he remembered something Marco had said, and turned back.

“Can I ask one more thing?” he spoke. He wasn’t sure if this meant he was pushing his luck, but he had to try. Marco nodded shortly. “You… you remember getting drunk, right? Why did you…”

“I don’t know,” Marco answered before he could get to the end of the question. Jean cleared his throat, watching Marco carefully.

“You don’t know?” He could see from where he was standing Marco’s jaw clenching and his Adam’s apple jumping as he swallowed.

“I mean…” he shook his head, his voice flat. “I saw the way they looked at Christa. I saw the future they saw with me and her, the future I was never even going to have. I couldn’t bear it.”

Jean felt smaller than he had ever felt in his life. He couldn’t have even imagined the things Marco was carrying within him. The sunny personality had him fooled since day one, and this Marco, standing right in front of him now… He wasn’t sure which of them was the real Marco and which one the Marco he wanted to be.

His feet had taken him to the brunette before his mind quite registered it, and he did what he knew people usually did when someone was upset, and slid his arms tightly around Marco’s body. He responded to the gesture, weaker than usual, but Jean held him tightly. He hugged Marco for the both of them, for all the things they had been through, for all the things they had had to endure. Maybe they weren’t so different after all. He might not be as damaged as Jean was, but he was still a bit of a wreck.

It was kind of comforting in its own, twisted way. Jean didn’t feel so alone.

“You still haven’t told me why you got arrested,” Marco’s voice came as a mumble, but it had a little more colour this time. Jean snorted and he pulled back to look Marco in the eyes. They looked dark behind his lashes, but at least they weren’t so blank anymore. Jean took his chance and leaned forward, and Marco agreed, and they met halfway into a kiss.

It was a shallow, tongueless kiss, but it was telling in more ways than one, because it was also soft, slow and safe. It was familiar.

“Way to ruin the moment,” he mumbled in Marco’s mouth, relieved when the guy finally smiled genuinely.

“What moment?” he chuckled.

“Of me trying to be all comforting and shit.” Marco full on laughed, colour returning to his pale cheeks, and he hugged Jean, momentarily burying his face in the blonde hair.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and Jean grunted softly.

“How did you even remember that? I was counting on you to have forgotten about it already.” Marco’s shoulders moved against Jean as he shrugged.

“I’ve been thinking about it ever since it happened, but I didn’t want to bother you by asking.” He sighed and slid his arms from around Jean to his waist, holding him close while pulling slightly back. “I know I can get quite pushy sometimes when I feel like you’re not being honest with me—”

“Quite pushy? You’re a goddamn pain in the ass most of the time,” Jean scoffed, rolling his eyes. Marco pulled him into a kiss and Jean didn’t resist, not one bit. He let Marco take the lead, let him set the pace of the kiss as he did his best to avoid the swollen side of his mouth.

“And you just don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?” Marco murmured, and he sounded like himself again. It made Jean’s whole body fill with tender warmth.

“Nope.” He melted against Marco’s chest, purring at him. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Keep mouthing off and you’ll find out soon enough,” Marco warned, playfully, the sexy huskiness in his voice making Jean tremble with lust.

“I’ll remember that,” Jean purred even louder. Marco smiled, and behind the sweet, gentle smile were numerous promises of the things they could have if they just got the fuck out of here. Jean wanted them all. “Are you gonna be here if I just get my jacket real quickly?”

“I’m coming too, it’d be rude to leave without saying anything.” Jean shrugged, and as they parted, he took Marco’s hand in his own and pulled the guy with him. When he opened the door, he let go of the hand without a word, and Marco kept silent too. Jean wiped his socks on the doormat quickly, but he didn’t get much further because Connie’s head bopped from behind the doorframe, followed by the rest of his body. He had obviously been waiting for them.

“Hey, we’re just—” Jean started, pointing over his shoulder to Marco standing behind him. He figured maybe Connie wouldn’t want to smack him if he kept close to Marco.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Connie interrupted him, and Jean knew it didn’t mean anything good. He looked pissed, although he kept himself contained in front of Marco.

“Are you gonna yell at me?” Jean asked, risking a little grin, which got shot down by Connie really fast.

“No.” his eye twitched. Jean sighed, glancing over at Marco. The guy looked helpless and quite honestly a little terrified. Maybe he thought he was in trouble, too.

“Look, I’m sorry about—”

“Just get your ass in the kitchen for five minutes, alright?” Connie snapped and before he was even finished, he was already backing down, looking slightly sheepish. He ran his hand over his scalp, a habit of his, and sighed. “I _just_ want to talk to you.” Which translated to ‘I’m going to yell at you’. Jean pulled a sulky face but followed him. He didn’t want to piss Connie off more than he already had, but he also wasn’t going to apologise to or for Eren, the asshole, which Connie probably wanted him to.

The kitchen was empty and after Connie made sure the people in the other room were outside hearing range, he crossed his arms across his chest in order to look intimidating. Jean bit his lips.

“Okay, let’s hear it, then.”

“Hear what?” Jean asked dumbly.

“What the hell was that with Eren? And don’t tell me he pissed you off or I swear to god…” Connie extended his finger to Jean to show him he wasn’t kidding.

“But he did!” Jean whined, and Connie made a face that told him he was about three seconds away from getting smacked again. Jean wrinkled his nose. “He started it.”

“What are you, _five?_ I don’t _care_ who started it, you’re not a bunch of school kids so how about stop acting like one?”

“Okay, fine,” Jean scoffed, and the way he rolled his eyes made Connie look even more pissed. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking clearly and he just got on my nerves, I dunno. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Jesus, Jean,” Connie groaned, but he didn’t sound as ticked off anymore. “I don’t get what’s going on between you two.”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Jean snapped, and when Connie’s eyes widened, with surprise this time, he shook his head quickly. “I mean… Nothing. The guy just, he doesn’t know when to stay out of my way.”

“You wanna know what he said about you?”

“No, I really don’t, and whatever it was—”

“He said you both had a bad day and it wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Oh yeah, Eren’s a goddamn saint, ain’t he?”

“Jean, what’s going on with you two? Honestly.”

“I already told you.”

“So what’s going on with _you_ , then?” Connie wasn’t angry anymore. He was worried. If Jean hadn’t been on edge like he was, he could’ve pretended everything was fine and fool Connie, to some extent at least, but right now he couldn’t. He had backed himself into the corner and was too worked up to stop the shit from escalating.

“Nothing,” he said simply. If only it ever was so simple.

“Nothing?” Connie repeated. He didn’t believe it, not for one second, and Jean mirrored him, crossing his arms. He wasn’t going to open up about his problems, not now.

“Nothing,” Jean said once more, in a tone that he hoped would get through Connie’s skull that this conversation was over. He was ready to get yelled at about the fight with Eren as long as all the personal details and questions were left out.

“I don’t believe you,” Connie said calmly, and he untied his arms, just to show Jean he was there, he was receptive, he would _listen_ if only Jean talked. He wasn’t going to talk.

“Yeah, you know what, get in line.” He didn’t want to piss Connie off, but the knot in the back of his head was slowly getting tighter and it made it impossible to try and stay calm. His head throbbed as he watched Connie’s face slide into disappointment and disbelief. “I am _tired_ and everyone’s been on my ass all _goddamn_ night long, I can’t take it anymore. So please just let me go home now. Sorry if I ruined your party, I didn’t do it on purpose.” Instead of trying to keep on pushing like Jean expected him to, Connie gave up with a long sigh. No matter how much Jean thought he could predict Connie, the guy somehow always managed to pull a new trick from his sleeve, a new kind of patience and understanding.

“Alright. Go home, get a good night’s sleep and we’ll talk later,” he said in that fatherly tone he sometimes spoke with. Jean couldn’t find any of the anger or the disappointment he was looking for in Connie’s voice. It didn’t comfort him, but he mustered up a half-smile and a nod and walked out of the conversation.

Maybe if he hadn’t been so on edge, he wouldn’t have minded finding Marco and Eren talking. Maybe if Eren hadn’t punched him in the mouth, _twice_ , he could’ve been rational about it. Maybe if Connie had spent a few more minutes scolding him he wouldn’t have lashed out like he did now. Eren had his back to him and it didn’t take much force to push the guy out of the living room and to the hallway, and then use his surprise as an advantage to punch him in the face. He felt incredibly satisfied as his knuckles made contact with Eren’s cheekbone hard enough for the guy to crumble. He held his face, unable to react back immediately, and just as Jean completely forgot what happened seconds ago with Connie, he got yanked back, pulled away from the immediate proximity of Eren. He recognised the arms around him, and hastily wondered what Eren had been talking to Marco about.

“What the _fuck_ is your fucking problem?!” Eren shouted the second he found his voice, broken and hurt, his eyes near blazing. He still held his face with his other hand, his other taking support from the wall.

“Just stay the fuck away from me ‘n him,” Jean snarled. “I don’t want you talking to him, ya hear me?” Eren looked like he was going to explode, his face flushed with anger and disbelief, but he ground his teeth together, his jaw tensing and shook his head.

“I’m sure _he_ …” and his eyes rose momentarily as he looked at Marco still holding Jean back. “…can tell you it was _him_ who talked to me, not the other way around. But whatever, I want nothing to do with you anyway, so just fuck off, Jean.”

“Yeah, the feeling’s mutual,” Jean growled. “Get a hint and get the fuck out, you’re not wanted here.” He took it too far. Mainly he knew it because everyone in the house had heard him, including Connie, and this time he wasn’t as understanding as he had been before. Before Jean realised it, he was getting pushed out of the apartment, out of the front door, Connie picking his shoes from the floor and shoving them at Jean. When he spoke, his voice was icy.

“Come back when you can behave.” And then the door got slammed in his face.

He didn’t get too far when Marco caught him, half-running to him, carrying his leather jacket. Jean took it without a word, mainly because he was still ripe with embarrassment and humiliation. They really, really shouldn’t have come in the first place. When Marco reached for his hand carefully, he took it, and squeezed it in appreciation.

“You want to talk about it?” Marco asked tentatively after a few minutes’ walk in silence, and Jean sighed.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he mumbled, circling his thumb over Marco’s.

“Who was the guy?”

“Nobody.”

“Jean…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Jean groaned, but Marco only chuckled lightly at him. It made him feel a little better. “He’s just, I don’t know. Closest thing to an ex I have, I guess. I dunno how to describe it.” Marco’s fingers tightened around his hand.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “I thought you… I thought you never had a boyfriend.”

“Alright, so he’s more of an ex fuck buddy, to be honest, figured you might not wanna hear that.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to hear it?”

“’Cause… If you had fuck buddies I sure as hell wouldn’t wanna know,” Jean mumbled, and Marco pulled him closer, kissing him quickly on his temple, chuckling.

“Would it make you jealous if I had?” he murmured, chewing his lower lip.

“You wish,” Jean snorted, but when Marco laughed and pulled him close, untangled their hands and wrapped his arm around his waist, he practically melted against the guy. “I just don’t wanna know about the losers you’ve fucked, is all.”

“Well, there haven’t been many,” Marco spoke, obviously amused at Jean’s grumpiness. “I don’t do one night stands or just sex relationships; they’re really not my thing. I don’t find sex enjoyable if it isn’t with someone I care about.”

“Lucky me,” Jean mumbled, more to himself, but Marco squeezed him tightly, nuzzling his blonde hair. Jean felt his warm breath tingle his skin and he purred involuntarily.

“You know,” Marco started, and it was enough to catalyst that dropping feeling in the pit of Jean’s stomach.

“Oh no,” he said, and he pushed Marco’s arm off, stopping and turning to look at the guy. “What is it _now_?”

“What?” Marco looked wildly confused, like a deer caught in the headlights. “ _What_?”

“I recognise that tone, it’s whenever you have confessions to make or, or, or something bad to say.”

“What? No,” Marco paused, blinking his big, brown dove eyes. “It’s just my regular tone.”

“Nope, you’re gonna say something I’m not sure I wanna hear.” Jean crossed his arms, and his eyebrows rose meaningfully. “What is it? Just spit it out.”

“I don’t want to,” Marco mumbled, his mouth setting in a pout. “Forget it.”

“See, I knew it. Something bad, wasn’t it?”

“Whatever, it’s gone now.”

“No, nope, come on now, say what you were gonna say.”

“I just—” Marco raised his arms before letting them flop back to his sides. “I—”

“Yeah, that’s not weirding me out, at _all_. Seems completely harmless.”

“Well you’re making me nervous!”

“Too bad, because you’re making _me_ nervous.”

“Jean—”

“See, that’s the tone again!”

“Stop that!”

“You stop first.” Jean narrowed his eyes and then shook his head. “No, I mean—say it, whatever it was. I’m prepared.” Marco took a deep breath and Jean prepared for the end of the Earth.

“I would like you to be my boyfriend, Jean.”

“Boyf—” Jean blinked, feeling the word around on his tongue. “Huh. Wow. Um.”

“Look, before you freak out—”

“I’m not gonna freak out, why would I freak out?”

“Just listen—”

“I’m listening,” Jean shrugged, and when he couldn’t think of anything else to do or say, he shrugged again, stiffly. “I’m listening. I’m not freaking out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, why would I freak out?”

“Well you sound like you’re—”

“You can’t just ask people things like that out of the blue, Marco.”

“You’re freaking out.”

“Thanks for pointing it out!”

“Listen—”

“Toblerone boy.”

“ _Hey_ , that was uncalled for. How do you even remember that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jean—”

“Can you _please_ cut that tone out? It freaks me out even more.”

“ _Listen_ ,” and by some miraculous force Jean was able to do so, to stop running his hand over his already messy hair and to stop sweating so profusely. “Jean, it doesn’t even have to, I mean, if the title makes you uncomfortable, it doesn’t have to be a boyfriend. I just… I, I’d like to…” Jean realised he was nodding, trying to make the guy talk faster, to let him out of his painful misery.

“Yes?” he pushed impatiently.

“I’d like us to, uh, to become exclusive.” Jean blinked a few times, pretending he was following, but when Marco stared at him, hopefully, waiting for him to answer, he shook his head.

“What does that…?” he trailed off, his face flushing a little in embarrassment. Were these the kind of questions school kids asked? Probably.

“Oh,” Marco blinked too, looking slightly nervous now, too. “It means, um, that we don’t… date other people.”

“I’ve never even had a boyfriend and you’re worried I’m dating other people?” Jean snorted, relaxing. “I mean come on.” Marco’s eyes wandered to the ground and there was obviously something there he wanted to add, but instead he just fiddled his fingers nervously. Jean’s eyebrows rose as he seemed to catch on.

“ _Oh_ , right, you mean… No sex with other people.”

“Well… that, too,” Marco spoke quietly, his cheekbones turning pink.

“So, uh, this doesn’t mean that, uh,” Jean was fidgeting, too, now, yanking the zipper on the sleeve of his jacket. “I don’t have to constantly answer my phone or…” Marco chuckled, a sound of relief more than of amusement.

“No, no, of course not. Nothing has to change. I mean, maybe… maybe something, but…”

“Because I really, really don’t want you to constantly know where I am or what I’m doing or what I’m eating or other shit that couples seem to have to share all the time. I’m not gonna become an extension of anyone.”

“I remember that,” Marco mused, momentarily falling in his own thoughts, but he shook them off pretty quickly. “Don’t worry, relationships don’t change you into a completely different person. I promise.” He smiled encouragingly.

“Relationship, huh. That’s a, uh, a big word.” Jean laughed nervously. Goddamn Marco and his mindboggling understanding and patience and sweetness, all wrapped up in that one, gorgeous package that wanted Jean just as much as Jean wanted him. Maybe even more, and Jean couldn’t quite fathom it. The bad thoughts that never actually left him completely alone were creeping in, telling him he didn’t deserve anyone or anything good, clouding his judgement and reminding him of all the horrible things he had done and if Marco ever found out…

If he knew, he wouldn’t touch Jean with a ten-foot pole, not even to push him off a cliff.

“Y-you don’t even have to decide right now, if you don’t want to.” If Jean focused, he could almost feel the invisible walls closing him in, so he decided not to focus. He decided to let the thoughts in his head evaporate, and he went with the first thing that came to his mind.

“It’s fine. Just don’t call me any gross pet names like ‘honey bunches’ or ‘sweetie pie’.” Maybe he could’ve gone with something other than ‘fine’, but Marco didn’t even seem to notice. It was incredible just how brightly his smile shone, drowning out every other thing around them, and he looked… happy. So happy. And it made Jean happy too.

“Okay,” Marco said, his voice flowy and soft, the arms that reached around Jean just as soft and tender. Jean felt Marco’s smile vibrate through his body, against Jean, and he smiled in sync with him.

 

“Are you ever going to tell me what you did to get arrested?” Marco asked after silence that couldn’t have lasted more than about a minute or so. He had been humming the whole time to himself, unable to keep the excited shaking under control. He was like a little kid on a Christmas morning, but instead of Christmas presents he had Jean wrapped under his arm.

“You’re just not gonna let that one go, are ya?” Jean grunted.

“It depends,” Marco hummed airily, glancing up at the sky above them.

“On what?”

“On whether you’re going to tell me or not.”

“That’s cryptic,” Jean rolled his eyes, sliding his hand in the back pocket of Marco’s pants. “Fine. I did something illegal and got busted, simple as that.”

“How illegal?” Marco treaded carefully.

“Nothing that will get you in trouble for bailing me out, I promise.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Marco huffed, sounding insulted. “So if they’re not going to take it to court—”

“I made a deal with them.”

“What kind of deal?”

“You are a never-ending fountain of questions, arencha?” Jean complained, squeezing Marco’s ass. The guy raised his eyebrows and Jean smiled devilishly at him. “You’re not the only one who can play that game.” Marco huffed but let the cheekiness slide this time.

“I’m just curious,” he mused.

“I give them what they want and they leave me alone.”

“What do they want?”

“A name or two.”

“So you’re an informant.”

“I guess.” Jean wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shrugged lazily. “I tell them what they wanna know and I walk free.”

“You sure?”

“I mean… They told me that—wait,” Jean stopped on his tracks, making Marco stop too. “They wouldn’t, like, blackmail me later with this? Tell me they want me to do more or something? If I give them what they want—”

“Well,” Marco drew his arm from around Jean, and scratched his neck. “It depends on the ongoing investigation, I suppose. And on the enormity of your crime.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, uh… Technically, police _are_ allowed to lie to suspects, but… You could always seek for legal aid, talk about the case with a lawyer and then decide whether you want to be an informant or not.”

“Right, yeah, okay.” He wasn’t going to ask about the alternatives. Marco smiled at him fondly and wrapped his arm around Jean again, and they continued walking, Jean resting his head against the guy’s shoulder.

“So when’s the hearing?”

“Um.” Jean cleared his throat, and Marco was fast to pick up on his hesitating. “I, uh.”

“What?” Marco asked with a touch of worry in his voice. Jean cleared his throat again.

“You know,” he mumbled. “Don’t worry about it.” The worst possible thing to say, he realised immediately. Marco was going to do nothing _but_ worry now.

“Jean?” He slowed down, to which Jean groaned impatiently.

“It’s all under control, like I said, don’t worry about it.” Marco stopped completely and Jean let his head fall back in frustration. “I’ll handle it, like you’ll handle the thing with your parents, alright?”

“This isn’t the same thing,” Marco spoke gravely. Just as Jean thought they could move past the serious subjects to something lighter, they took at least two steps back. “You could get in real trouble, Jean.”

“Alright,” Jean huffed, pointing his finger at Marco. “I said I’ll deal with it. Don’t push your luck, Marco, I’m serious.” Marco looked ashamed and confused.

“I just want to help you, Jean,” he softly mumbled, his voice fragile. He played with his fingers, unsure what else to do with his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Look,” Jean tried to speak easily, but the tense knot in the back of his head wasn’t completely gone. “While it’s very sweet of you try and help with everything, I don’t want you losing sleep over something that ain’t your problem. I can handle myself.”

“But you know you can talk to me about anything, right? If there’s ever anything you want to tell me…”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t wanna know everything.” Jean raised his hands in front of him before Marco would protest. “ _Anyway_ , can we just go home now?”

“Yes, of course,” Marco agreed tenderly, forcing Jean to blow out some of the bad air in his lungs. “And you’re wrong. I’m just saying.” He pulled Jean under his arm before the blonde could start a whole new round of arguing, and his reward was an aggressive squeeze of his ass. He didn’t mind it.

They made a detour by Jean’s, and just as he was searching for his keys, his landlady peeked her head out of her door, a few apartments away. He hadn’t seen her in a long while, but it still felt like it had been too little ago. He pretended he didn’t see her prancing down the hall, but it was too late to warn Marco, who, unfortunately, felt the compelling need to be polite to even people he hadn’t yet made proper eye contact with.

“Hello Jean,” she chirped, or at least she wished she did, because she sounded like a goddamn fly in Jean’s ear. “Everything alright, love?” She didn’t even as much as blink in Marco’s direction, although usually she was all up for harassing young guys and breaking the unwritten rule of ‘no touching of strangers’. Not to mention personal space didn’t exist for her. Jean shoved his key in the keyhole and shrugged, moving from underneath the hand that extended towards him.

“Someone came asking for you. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t _just_ been out to run some errands. He was knocking on your door, awfully handsome fella, anyway, he came asking for you.”

“Don’t tell me,” Jean muttered, clicking his door open. “Blonde with a beard and a moustache.”

“Indeed, that’s the same bloke! Awfully handsome, and with some manners, too.” She reached her hand again, going in the vague direction of Jean’s face, but he pushed the door open and dodged inside.

“What did you tell him?”

“He asked me to call if I happened to see you. He was from the police, did you know that? With a badge and all.” She looked like she was going to come inside, blocking the way from a very confused Marco, and Jean remembered his rent was late so he nodded as politely as he could.

“I know,” he was able to relax his face enough to smile, and she took it and hung onto it with her figurative claws.

“I won’t call him if you don’t want me to, love,” she teased coyly and winked.

“That’d be great,” Jean said, and reaching over to Marco he grabbed him by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him past the woman who clearly was not able to take the goddamn hint. She gave way, barely, and before Jean could slam the door in her face, she pushed in between the door and the doorframe.

“You should come over sometime, have a cuppa with me, yeah?” she asked, and Jean nodded hastily.

“Sure, yeah,” he mumbled and she didn’t move out of the way immediately, just stared at Jean with a crazy grin on her thin lips. Then she seemed to snap out of it and pulled back, saying her goodbyes as Jean pushed the door shut. He looked through the peephole to find the lady standing behind her door for a few, idle seconds, before she had the good sense to piss off.

“Sorry about that,” he told Marco as soon as she was gone, shaking his head with a pitying look on his face. “She’s a bit clingy.” Marco chuckled, hanging his jacket.

“Who was she?” he asked, and as Jean dropped his own jacket to the floor, he picked it up and hung it, too.

“She’s my landlady,” Jean explained, walking into the apartment and throwing his phone and keys on the coffee table. “I’m late with my rent so I have to keep her in a good mood so she doesn’t remember it.” He walked through the apartment, stretching his arms over his head and yawning, and suddenly Marco wrapped himself around Jean from behind, burying his face in the blonde’s neck.

“Do you need help with it?” he murmured, nipping the skin of Jean’s neck with his lips. The blonde chuckled lightly, leaning into the embrace.

“With my boner? Yes, it’s been bothering me all evening.” Marco nipped him with teeth, making him jump a little.

“Hilarious,” Marco grumbled, _obviously_ amused, and Jean chuckled again, turning around in the arms holding him. He wrapped his own arms around the guy’s neck and pushed himself up slightly on his toes to kiss him. Marco seemed to forgive him his horrible sense of humour immediately, his hands roaming Jean’s back, slipping under his shirt the first given chance.

Jean completely forgot why they came there in the first place when Marco’s warm hands slid on his skin, his nails dragging lightly against his sides, so he just went with it, pushing Marco backwards towards the bed. When the back of his legs hit the mattress, he spun them around and pushed Jean on his back. Jean was about to say something about Marco manhandling him, but the guy quickly crawled on top of him and stole his breath away by kissing him like both of their lives depended on it. Jean wrapped his legs around his waist and pulled him close, tangling his hands in the dark hair.

Completely opposite to the earlier desperation and frantic want and need, Marco took his time to kiss Jean thoroughly, to make sure he was breathless after their lips parted. He didn’t give the guy too much time to recover, though, just made sure to keep Jean breathless a little longer by focusing his attention next on the blonde’s slender neck. With a long, appreciative sigh Jean tilted his head back, shuddering at the tentative, open-mouthed kisses lazily travelling from his neck to his jawbone.

Marco kept the same slow, careful pace up for a long time, making sure to taste every inch of Jean’s skin. Jean didn’t mind, there was something about the way Marco almost worshipped him with his mouth that left him completely boneless. He took his time to murmur sweet nothings in Jean’s ear and then run his tongue over the earlobe, Jean’s soft gasps letting him know he was doing an alright job. If Jean did try to murmur his objections, just to keep up his unshakable, tough guy act, they really did nothing to tone down Marco’s appreciation for his skin, his body, and overall, for him. The more skin he uncovered from under Jean’s clothes, the more adoring his sweet nothings grew.

They moved slowly, almost _too_ slowly, but Jean didn’t want to ruin it by trying to hurry Marco up. He let the guy undress them both unhurriedly, let him kiss him for the hundredth time like he’d never kissed Jean before, his mouth languid and attentive on his. He even paid extra careful attention to the corner of his mouth, the lips swollen and tender. His hand playing with the hair on Jean’s neck was just as careful, just as attentive, and Jean felt like the whole world around them could come to an end and he wouldn’t even notice it.

What he did notice was his phone coming to life and vibrating loudly against the surface of the table. The ringtone was whatever had been the first one in the options menu, and it was annoying enough to make Jean grunt and squirm against Marco. The guy looked up from his position, hovering somewhere above Jean’s hips, and smiled.

“You want to get it?” he asked. Jean shook his head and grimaced.

“Nah, it’s probably just Connie calling to tell me what an asshole I am.” He sighed as Marco ran his warm hands up his stomach and to his chest, his lips soon following, the tips of his fingers teasing his nipples. Jean closed his eyes and concentrated on Marco, trying to ignore the piece of electronic still vibrating. “I’ll call ‘im tomorrow to apologise.” Marco hummed, his lips closing over Jean’s nipple, and he gave it a firm tug. Jean let out a stilted gasp.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he sighed, his voice hinting impatience, and licked his lips, his mouth left hanging open when Marco bit him playfully, rolling his tongue over the nub.

“I know,” Marco mumbled as he crawled up, listening to every single change in Jean’s quickening breathing, enjoying them wholeheartedly. “That’s the whole idea.” Then suddenly his grinning face was hovering above Jean’s, and he looked like a man immensely pleased with himself. Which he was, undoubtedly.

“Oh yeah?” Jean said, his voice quivering in addition to his whole body, and he licked his lips again. “I can keep this up forever you know.” A blunt lie, but he grinned nevertheless, biting his lip just to see Marco’s eyes narrow dangerously, his grin widening. Marco lowered down and kissed him quickly, the blonde’s lips parting slightly in a sigh, and ran his tongue flat over Jean’s bottom lip. His sneaky, sneaky hand travelled down Jean’s body to the waistband of his boxers and he slid one finger below the band, pulling it up and letting it snap against his skin. Jean huffed grumpily. The phone had stopped ringing.

“Fine, I’ll play along,” he grunted as Marco giggled at him, pulling Jean in a firm hug, rolling them both on their side. For a moment they stayed like that, holding each other in the perfect little bubble of theirs, and then Jean’s phone started ringing again. This time he groaned louder.

“He sure is persistent,” Marco commented against his neck. Jean shivered at the feel of it.

“It could be Ymir, too, I dunno,” he mumbled. He didn’t really care either way, he wasn’t available to anyone right now.

“Hmm,” Marco hummed, his hungry lips nipping Jean’s skin again. He was warm, his skin soft and inviting. Jean repaid Marco by sinking his own teeth in Marco’s neck, the guy letting out a high-pitched yelp and then he huffed against Jean’s neck, momentarily holding the guy a little tighter. He pulled back, searching for Jean’s gaze with his own until he found it.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, the dimples on his cheeks deepening as his smile widened. He giggled softly at the mortified face Jean pulled.

“Shut up.”

“You’re also sexy, and you’re gorgeous, and… you’re smart, and you’re so, so great.” His thumb ran tenderly over the cut on Jean’s lip, and his features hardened momentarily, uncharacteristically, but it was a fleeing moment, barely noticeable. Then he smiled again so lovingly that Jean’s heart fluttered at it. He didn’t say anything, he wanted to see more of Marco’s smile and feel his presence, just like this, without any distractions. The phone had stopped ringing and Jean didn’t even remember it had ever rung.

“So great, huh,” he murmured, melting under the incessant attention of the brunette, succumbing under his fingertips.

“So great,” Marco repeated, his smile turning into a small grin. It disappeared shortly after, and even though Jean recognised the seriousness that now inhabited Marco’s features, he told himself not to freak out.  There was nothing more Marco could say to make him nervous, maybe. He hoped so. “And I-I know how difficult it must’ve been for you to let me close and… I’m so glad you did. I’m proud of you, Jean. And I really, really want to be worthy of that trust.”

“You are,” Jean mumbled without a moment’s hesitation. The spark in Marco’s eyes was impossibly bright and impossible to ignore. “I mean… You’re still here. After everything you’ve learned about me, you’re still… I mean, that must count as something.” He couldn’t hide from his own embarrassment and Marco didn’t give him a chance to hide from him. He pulled Jean in a gentle kiss and the blonde wasn’t sure if he deserved this; this kind of adoration; this tenderness; Marco. But fuck, he was going to take it, for as long as he could.

“I’ll be here for as long as you want me to be,” Marco’s voice was a mere whisper but it was intense. It had the force of a thousand promises. “As long as you let me.” They kissed again, this time by Jean’s initiation; they kissed languidly, like they had all the time in the world. His phone was ringing again and he nearly didn’t notice it, but it was Marco who groaned softly this time. He broke the kiss and shuffled out of the bed with a huff and fetched the phone. Jean chuckled, stretching his limbs lazily like a cat and stifling a small yawn. He watched Marco’s back as the guy squinted at the lighted screen.

“It’s not in your contacts,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Jean. “You expecting a call?”

“Nah,” Jean answered. “Does it have 1101?” Marco squinted at the screen again.

“No.”

“Probably just come old customer, been meaning to change my number for a while now.” The phone kept ringing and Marco kept holding it in his hand. “I’ll have to do it next week.” He didn’t think of it when Marco stood still for a few moments more, unmoving, his eyes still lowered on the phone. Only when the phone stopped ringing and Marco still didn’t move, Jean sat up.

“Come on, I’ll turn it off.” He extended his hand, expecting Marco to turn around and give the phone to him. When he didn’t, Jean let out a nervous chuckle which he hoped didn’t actually sound too nervous. “What’s up? You suddenly remember leaving the stove on or something?” Marco turned his head, but not enough to look at Jean. His brow was furrowed and he looked puzzled.

“Customer?” He honestly sounded confused, even surprised. Jean’s mouth ran dry.

“Yeah, I mean…” and he couldn’t think of one thing to say. Time seemed to stand still and heavy between them as Marco kept staring somewhere in the distance and the sweat forming on Jean’s palms told him he had made a mistake. He wasn’t sure why it mattered but he knew it was a mistake.

“I thought you,” Marco begun, and he was still calm. Surprised. A little dumbfounded, but not alarmed. “You, uh, didn’t give your number to customers?”

“Well I gave it to you, didn’t I?” The worst time to joke and it didn’t even take Jean the time it took to finish the sentence completely to realise it. “It’s just—look, forget it, yeah? Just come back to bed.” He patted the mattress next to him knowing extremely well it would do no good. Marco blinked, slowly, his thumb running up and down the side of the phone.

“I’m… I’m a little confused, Jean.” He turned to face the blonde, but he didn’t look him in the eyes. “What—what kind of customer?”

There was no way in hell Marco knew what he was talking about. Jean pinned it on his never-ending curiosity. He needed to know everything inside out even when he had no idea what was going on. Like now.

“You know, I used do these, um, bachelorette parties and shit.” Jean shrugged helplessly. “Maybe it’s, uh, someone… Uh, I don’t know.”

“What?” Marco blinked rapidly, and the confusion grew larger. “I don’t understand.”

“Just forget it. It’s nobody, could be anyone, I mean—” Jean took a deep breath but it didn’t erase the growing tightness in his chest. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “Don’t ruin this now, okay?” Marco looked at him.

“What aren’t you telling me?” He was starting to sound worried and he looked tense. Jean tried to chase down a thought, an idea that would convince him to let it go.

“Nothing—there’s nothing to tell, hey, remember when I said you can be a real pain in the ass?” Jean shook his head, not sure if the sound that exited his lips was a chuckle or a pained moan. “Don’t ruin this now, Marco. Please.” Maybe he sounded convincing enough because Marco drew back a little, his face looking like a mixture of shame and confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured and finally held out the phone for Jean. He took it silently, muting it and reaching over to the nightstand to throw it in the drawer.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he said monotonously. His heart felt like it was about to explode, the drumming so loud he was sure Marco could hear it. The relief turned to sour annoyance in mere seconds. Marco had forced him into yet another corner with no way out and it set out a flame in him, bright and angry and sharp and it burned every goddamn thing it came in contact with. “Besides, it’d be none of your business anyway.” Just a little slap on Marco’s wrist. He had no right to get involved in Jean’s life, not like this, Jean hadn’t given him the permission. It angered him, made him act on impulse. At least Marco had the decency to pull back, although it seemed he had learned to grow a thicker skin at the places where Jean’s insults usually were aimed at. He didn’t step back and whimper his apologies.

“No, it’s not my business,” he said, and even though his voice was soft, it was stern. Like he didn’t believe in his own words. “But I thought you quit your job.”

“I did!” Jean yelled. It came out of nowhere, the force of his voice, and they both looked shocked by it. “I _did_. What’re you trying to insinuate?”

“Nothing,” Marco replied. “I’m not trying anything. I just…” He picked his fingers, averting his eyes from Jean.

“What? Why do I always have to fucking drag these things out of you?”

“I just wanted to know you’re not still doing that, that… job.”

“What, stripping?” Jean’s eyes narrowed and then he rolled them.

“And whatever it was you did in addition to it.”

“You can’t even say it, can you,” Jean sneered, getting up from the bed. He picked his clothes from the floor and dived in them as fast as was humanly possible. Then he turned to Marco. “No, I’m not sucking any dicks, rest assured. I said I quit and if you can’t believe that—”

“I can, and I do.” Marco sounded relieved of all things. “I believe you. I just, you told me you don’t… You don’t see your customers outside your work.”

“Jesus,” Jean sighed exasperatedly, running his hand over his face. “You are a _pain_ in my fucking ass.”

“I’m just confused why you would lie to me about something like that.”

“I didn’t _lie_ ,” Jean gritted his teeth together. “It’s just none of your _goddamn_ business.” What he didn’t say was ‘it _was_ for work’. Technically, it wasn’t a lie. It didn’t make him feel any less shitty, though.

“So were there others like me?” Jean couldn’t quite comprehend why Marco thought he had the right to feel hurt about this. He couldn’t understand how they were fighting again. So far, the whole boyfriend thing didn’t seem too appealing to him. Maybe this was the real Marco that had hid behind the sweet, kind boy act all along; maybe this was their future.

“Others like you?” Jean repeated jadedly.

“Others that paid for you.”

“They all paid for me.”

Marco looked… He looked mortified. He looked like Jean had punched him in the gut, all air blown out of him and he was lying on the floor in pain. Only he was still standing straight, but he looked _so_ mortified. Hurt. _Betrayed_ , Jean thought, for the lack of a better word. Or maybe it was the right word all along. Jean couldn’t connect the dots, not like Marco must have, because it seemed like he had realised something Jean had made sure not to say out loud. He had been sloppy before, though, maybe he had said everything without even hearing it himself. He tried to retrace his words but he couldn’t, he couldn’t even remember how they got here from the safety and the warmth of his bed.

“What are you talking about?” Marco whispered. His chin quivered.

Nothing, Jean wanted to say. Nothing at all.

“Nothing,” he said, but it was too late. He had let the doubt and the worry worm their way under Marco’s skin and they both knew how poorly he dealt with those things. Everything was falling apart right in front of Jean and all he could think about was how much he needed a smoke. Marco blinked rapidly and he tried desperately to find a way out of the situation, too, but he was looking for it on Jean’s face and he would never find it there.

“What did they pay you for?” Marco’s sanity seemed to be hanging by a thread, or maybe it was Jean’s.

Nothing, he wanted to say, but this time he didn’t say it. He couldn’t say anything. He could only watch as Marco watched him back, trying to find hints in his expressions. He would put it together sooner or later. He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t Eren.

Jean let his gaze fall when Marco’s gaze turned too heavy to bear and that’s when he put it together. Jean could _hear_ the pieces clicking in his brain. To be honest, it wasn’t that difficult. Maybe Marco had suspected it before, but back then he had still held some standards for Jean.

Very much like Jean had done for himself. Funny how everything seemed to turn rotten around him; even Marco. Jean could see Marco withdrawing without actually moving. He was already out of Jean’s sight in his mind, but his body just didn’t respond fast enough.

“Y-you,” was all he could say without his voice shaking. He shook his head and then he stopped, contemplating something, then shook his head more violently. “Please tell me this is some kind of a joke.”

Jean didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes on the ground.

“Please say _something_.”

“Is there anything I could say to make you forget this whole conversation?” Of course there wasn’t but Jean had nothing to lose. Except he had _everything_ to lose. It hadn’t occurred to him before but when he dared to look up at Marco again, he saw something crack inside of him. He saw it in the widening of his eyes, in the way his lips pressed together tightly like he might scream soon. Jean realised there was a real chance that he _might_ scream, that he might run away fast and never come back.

No, no. He had to make Marco stay.

“Just be honest with me,” Marco spoke, forming every word carefully, because behind them lured something dark, something bad, and he needed to keep it under control. “What did they pay you for?”

“My time.”

“You’re lying.”

“It doesn’t matter what I say because clearly you’ve already made your own assumptions.”

“Why don’t you even _try_ to tell me it’s not what I think it is?” Marco asked. He was desperate and Jean was lost. He didn’t know how to respond. “Tell me it’s _not_ what I think it is.”

“What do you think it is?” Jean asked. The tiniest fleck of hope he still had was fading out but he hung onto it. Marco looked at him like he was insane. Jean’s stomach coiled with nausea, creeping up his gullet, the taste vile in the back of his mouth.

“You didn’t—” the pause Marco took could’ve continued forever for all Jean cared. He knew what was coming and there was nothing protecting him from the impact now. “—sleep with them for money, did you?” He looked disgusted at his own words. He was ready to believe anything else Jean might’ve offered. Too bad Jean had nothing.

He had nothing. Not even the dumbest, most obvious lie.

Marco’s hand covered his mouth. The way he shook his head made him look like he moved in slow-motion. Jean imagined he held his hand over his mouth so he wouldn’t throw up.

“Oh my god.” Jean could barely hear Marco speaking. He repeated the line a few times, still shaking his head, his voice an exhaled whisper. When he lowered his hand, it was trembling, and all colour had escaped his face. Jean could already taste the insides of his stomach in his mouth, the panic that was numbing him in place nearing hysteria.

The last bit of sense in his brain got dislocated when Marco turned away, searching and gathering his own clothes frantically, his hands shaking the whole time as he did.

“Don’t go,” Jean said huskily. He sounded flat and emotionless despite the storm in his mind. “Don’t go.”

“I have to go, Jean,” Marco mumbled through the shirt he was pulling over his head. “I-I have things, I have to…”

“Don’t go,” Jean repeated hollowly. He had picked the skin around his other thumb off without noticing. There was blood on his fingers.

“I can’t even look at you right now!” Marco cried out. It was probably the most honest thing he had ever said. His hands trembled so much he almost couldn’t zip up his pants. They trembled so hard it broke him down completely, and he yelled in frustration. The hollow echoing in Jean’s head multiplied the sound by a thousand and he couldn’t think of anything else than that he had to make Marco stay. It was crucial he stayed.

He opened his mouth but not a single word came out, because he had no words. He watched Marco finally winning the battle against his pants, his eyes glistening with tears he refused to shed.

Jean extended his hand but Marco moved away faster. He didn’t even look at Jean, it was like he didn’t exist anymore, and he moved further away, pulling on his jacket as he tried to shove his foot in a shoe.

“You can’t go,” Jean stated before he caught Marco, trying to grab his anything, but he dodged. He got his other shoe on, barely, and Jean shook his head aggressively. “Don’t do this.”

“I can’t stay,” Marco said oh so simply. In a world where nothing was easy for the likes of them, he sure made it sound like it was easy.

“I’m not letting you go,” Jean spat out.

“I’m going,” Marco stated almost as sharply, getting his other shoe on now, too. When he took a step to the door, Jean wedged himself between Marco and the door. He shook his head.

“No, no, you can’t go,” he mumbled. “Don’t fucking do this to me, don’t fucking…”

“I have to go,” Marco responded. They both sounded like a couple of broken records, both their minds set on the same things and they kept playing the scenario over and over and over.

“You’re fucking selfish.” The fear was suffocating, deafening. He was ready to fucking wrestle Marco if he had to. He would lose. “You have no right to judge me. You can’t do that, not after, not after…” He ground his teeth together, swallowing hard to keep the nausea from crawling up.

“Please get out of my way,” Marco murmured, but even his act was starting to crack. Jean shook his head.

“No, no,” he mumbled through dry lips. “You don’t understand. I had no choice. I had—”

“You always have a choice!” Marco exclaimed. “Don’t you dare to tell me you had no other choice than to, to…”

“I had no choice!” Jean yelled with a broken voice.

“The, the stripping, I can understand that, but—but…”

“No, you don’t know what it’s like, you’re sitting on a goddamn _mountain_ of money, you don’t know—”

“ _Bullshit_!” Marco yelled, his voice now so loud that it almost, _almost_ made Jean crawl out of his way. His face was twisted with anger, Jean didn’t recognise the Marco in there. “You are not _that_ stupid Jean, you are _not_. How do you think every other person out there gets by, huh? Certainly not, not—”

“Marco—”

“—by _whoring_ themselves!”¨

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Jean hissed, and he shoved Marco backwards, his hands twisting into the front of Marco’s shirt. For a fraction of a second Marco looked angry enough to shove Jean back, leaning against his grip, but even through the blinding anger he could contain himself. “I hope your parents don’t kick you out ‘cause then you’d have to see what it’s like to walk in my fucking shoes. I know you think money grows on fucking trees—”

“I’ve never thought that,” Marco growled, but he still made no move to push Jean’s hands off of him. “But you can’t seriously look me in the eye and tell me there’s _nothing_ else in the world you could’ve done to make money?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jean said and let go. “I don’t do it anymore.”

“How many?”

“How many _what_?”

“How many _guys_?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Please tell me you at least got tested after—”

“I get tested regularly, get off your fucking high horse Marco.” Every word burned like a goddamn stigma on Jean’s skin. He was past the point where he pretended Marco had any respect left for him. It was over, done. He couldn’t make Marco stay, there had never been a real chance for him anyway. He only fought because he knew the second the guy would walk out was the second he’d get high and then jump out of his window pretending he could fly.

“Good.” He didn’t say it because he was worried about Jean’s health. It was just a way to hide just how disgusted he felt. Jean almost told him he felt the exact same way, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered as far as Jean was concerned.

“I need to go now.”

“No you don’t.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No you won’t.” Marco didn’t deny it. His face was still pale apart from his cheeks that were flushed with anger. “I know you’re not coming back. No one ever does.” Jean didn’t mean to sound like he was on a goddamn self-pity tour but he probably did. Maybe Marco didn’t realise just how many people Jean had lost in his life, maybe Marco thought Jean didn’t care. He acted as if he needed no one and it made it so much harder to admit that he needed Marco. The hardness on Marco’s face gave way to the usual softness and for a second it was alright; for a second Marco let Jean lean closer to him and bury his face against his shoulder. For a second he agreed to hold Jean.

“I’ll call you next week,” he said with a hoarse voice, his arms foreign and unenthusiastic around him. “I promise. I just need to think about things.” His hands left Jean.

“Please, please don’t go,” Jean inhaled shakily, the pressure behind his eyes almost too much to hold back. He clung onto Marco’s shirt. “Please don’t leave me.”

“I’ll call you next week, I promise.” The more he repeated it, the more false it sounded. Jean didn’t let go, he didn’t pull back. “I have to go now.”

“Please,” Jean begged, choking on all the things he should’ve said, but he had never been good with words. He didn’t know the magic words to fix this, and it was slowly becoming clearer and clearer that he didn’t know anything. He couldn’t do anything right, he couldn’t even hold this one thing together. “Stay. I’ll do anything.” He was ready to drop on his knees and kiss the toes of Marco’s shoes if that was what he wanted, but somehow he doubted it was.

“I have to go, Jean.” The name didn’t flow off his tongue like it had used to, it didn’t disappear into the air softly but stayed in between them, unfamiliar and rejecting.

Jean didn’t want to let go. This was all he had left.

“Please don’t leave me,” he whimpered, but Marco had already moved him out of the way, his fingers too weak to hold onto the guy any longer. “You told me you—you told me you loved me.”

With a soft click of the door, Marco was gone.

Even with the sickeningly growing sinking in his gut, even with the cold, numbing hurt and rejection, he knew that this…

This was what he deserved.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> White sheets, bright lights, crooked teeth, and the night life  
> You told me this is right where it begins  
> But your lips hang heavy underneath me  
>  **And I promised myself I wouldn't let you complete me**
> 
> (Halsey - Is There Somewhere)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHA you never saw this day coming did you?
> 
> Alright alright alright. I have no idea what to say. I've had so many speeches in my head during this eight months' (my god it has been eight months) period of time, so many great excuses to explain my absence and yadda yadda yadda, but I can't... remember any of them. They were so great, too; _epic_ , even. So guess what, no excuses, no sob stories, no nothing. I present to you... chapter 15 of this monstrosity that was supposed to be a smutty story about a stripper and this guy he meets. Today it's something else entirely and I'm not sure how I feel about it. I love it and I hate it and it consumes my soul and my time and my energy and I wouldn't change anything, not even for five minutes' peace of mind.
> 
> This chapter's been on the works for a long, LONG time, and I can't tell you how many times I've had to read it through myself. Too many. One of the reasons this took so long is that my dear ol' beta kinda vanished for a long time (real life and all that), and I waited for her to go through it about two or three months before I aquired a back-up beta [D](http://dianeofarc.tumblr.com), who then very kindly helped me by giving me her opinions on this chapter. Without her, this would've never been posted most likely. So give her a big hand, aight? She's been so good for me.
> 
> As always, thank you guys for sticking with me through all these highs and lows. Please gimme your honest feedback on this chapter, because after you wallow in your own writing for so long, you stop seeing anything objectively and you kinda lose yourself in all the sentences and paragraphs and in the end you have 20k+ words that make zero sense to you and you feel like it's never gonna be ready no matter how much you polish it and add more words and try to make it as presentable as possible (and at some point you give up, wrap it up with a lousy ending with a ribbon on it and hope that it doesn't fall apart the second someone looks at it too closely) and I just kinda need you and your support right now. I love you all. Your feedback is like 90 % the reason I even finished this. Thank you, you guys are fucking amazing.
> 
> (The song quoted was suggested to me by one incredible reader and I love it, thank you again.)
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](https://dollyb0y.tumblr.com).

The pain itself didn’t come as a surprise, but the way it felt, the way it pulsated and hummed deep inside his body did. He had expected it to be sharp, like the edge of a knife pushed into the deepest core of his being, but it was duller than that. It didn’t crack or slice him open. It was like an itch he couldn’t reach; only this itch _hurt_ and burned and tore his insides to splinters. It left him devastated and lost, more so than usually. It wasn’t the kind of pain that made him want to end his misery, to his surprise, or drink until he couldn’t feel a damn thing. Instead it sucked out all his strength and left him curled on the bottom of his bed, his chest aching more than ever before. It felt like melted, hot iron, burning in his centre like a volcano ready to erupt. He could lie still for hours just concentrating on the difficultness of his breathing and whenever he closed his eyes, he could rewind everything that had happened and redo, and he redid and redid until he had a hundred different endings that were all better than this one.

An ending. He didn’t want it to be one, but everything outside his bed, outside those hours he spent there, they led nowhere. There was nothing beyond them, because there was no more Marco, there was nothing more to wait for, to wake up to, to use as an excuse to make it through another day. He didn’t know at which point Marco had become this enormous importance to him, but even though he could lie to everyone else and had, even to himself, he couldn’t anymore. He couldn’t believe in his own, weak lies, so he stopped pretending. He stopped pretending the pain was anything else than heartbreak.

He told himself not to wait for a call but he did, he told himself not to be crushed by the weight of his expectations but he was. It took him the whole night to twist it around, to try and make himself hate Marco, to try and make himself the same detached person he once was. If only the guy hadn’t been there every time he closed his eyes, if only his smell hadn’t been absorbed in his sheets, if only Jean didn’t wake up to a new morning completely expecting Marco to be next to him, his arm wrapped loosely around Jean’s waist, if only he hadn’t almost, for a mere second, felt his breath on his neck, still shallow, warm and slow from sleep.

But he did.

And as the morning rolled in, swallowing the fading darkness away, Jean didn’t even remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember his dreams if he had had any, but the second the grey clouds cleared from his mind, the same pain was there, tearing a hole in his whole being like he was made of paper; easily torn apart.

It throbbed with every heartbeat, it reminded Jean he was very much alive, very much attached, unable to distance himself from his surroundings; from _himself_ like he had used to. His nails sinking in his palms he pleaded himself to forget, to get up and move on. It wasn’t the first time he had to pick up the pieces of his sanity from the dust and try to tape them back together, but then, again, as he closed his eyes, Marco was there, his _everything_ painted on Jean’s memory, and his smile kept repeating like an old silent movie; the picture grained and blurry but his smile shone brightly through the layers and Jean couldn’t help it. He really couldn’t.

His face buried in the pillow scented like Marco, he cried until he couldn’t breathe anymore, until he felt like suffocating, imploding in on himself. By the end of the day he had gotten up from his bed long enough to come to a conclusion he really didn’t want to get up, ever again, and he crawled under covers and slept through another night, his nightmares loud and restless but forgotten as soon as he woke up.

The next morning he no longer expected Marco to be there. He might’ve fallen for Marco against all the better knowledge he had, but he wasn’t naïve or stupid. He was beginning to see the type of a person Marco was, how much more lightly he used words that were like earthquakes to Jean. He hadn’t actually, for once, believed Marco would’ve been in love with him? He had done nothing to earn it, and he knew nothing in life came for free, much less people who were worth holding onto.

So even though the heartache still had its iron hold of his heart as he climbed out of his messy bed, still wearing the same clothes from two days ago, he did his best to assure himself it would pass, that one day he’d look back and roll his eyes to this. He’d take it as a lesson to be learned from, lesson on who to trust; a lesson on who _not_ to trust. At least now there was nothing stopping him from leaving, from getting out and going as far as he could. He could hop onto the first train out of the city, keep going until he’d come to the edge of everything and then jump into the unknown. He had started over before, he could do it again. He’d prove himself he didn’t need anyone; once again, he’d do it. He didn’t need minds, alike or unlike his; he needed bodies, willing to be used, and those he could find anywhere, whenever he wanted to.

Eren was in his head again; Eren and his words about how people stayed for as long as he was still pretty. Well, he was still young and he was still pretty. He still had time to find someone who’d stay for as long as Jean wanted them to. He’d build his self-worth through people who he pitied, once again.

The first time after two days he set his foot outside was to get more cigarettes. He could easily live off whatever he could scrape up from the bottom of his fridge, but stepping in his joke of a kitchen now also reminded him of Marco. The bottle of chocolate milk he had never finished was still there, because Jean hadn’t had the energy to throw it out, and now it just sat there, mocking him and his life choices whenever he opened the fridge door.

So he bought cigarettes and whatever he could eat that didn’t need heating or any kind of preparing. He parked himself on the deepest corner of his sofa, ate to keep himself alive enough to keep his heart beating and lungs working and smoked until it didn’t give him any kind of satisfaction anymore; until it stopped filling the hollowness inside of him. Until it made his lungs burn. The stubborn pride he still wore like a noose around his neck was getting tighter and tighter and it was gradually beginning to drown the side of him that missed Marco, and the pride told him to stop acting like this one had come as a surprise.

It told him to get up and prove to everyone that he wasn’t this easily destroyed. He had survived worse; he still hadn’t killed himself after being a pathetic fuck-up for his whole life and over this, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.

Of course, when the night started to settle, sweeping the last drops of sun out and waking up his demons, it was hard to believe there would be any reasons to exist come next day; next week; next month; next year. And for the moment, he let himself grieve in the darkness even though it made him hate himself just a little more. The demons wore Marco’s face and he couldn’t hate them.

He had time to reflect on things in the dark; he had time to go over every detail of his whole life in a matter of minutes that could’ve been hours, it was hard to tell. He had never been a very good friend. Not to Connie, not to Ymir nor Christa although they all expected different things from him. He had let them all down, one by one, in so many different ways. Maybe Ymir and Christa expected less of him, or maybe more, or maybe they understood him better, while it was Connie who put so much more effort in understanding him. He could never figure Jean out.

Jean was the kind of shitty friend who finally picked up the phone when _he_ finally needed to. The worst part was, it could’ve been a week or it could’ve been a year and it didn’t matter, because Christa was just as happy answering the call as she ever was. Jean had no idea why she even liked him, as a friend, why she ever bothered to give a crap. They didn’t lack friends; they didn’t need to involve Jean in their lives. But they did, time after time, an ignored call after another. Their history was much shorter than his and Connie’s, much easier to erase, to forget, yet they held onto him tighter than he did onto them.

“Hey,” she spoke, her voice mellow and calm, stretching the syllable softly over her tongue.

“What’s up, baby girl?” Jean murmured. He slid a little lower on the couch, closing his eyes. “You weren’t sleeping, were you?” He listened to the stifled yawn on the other end, realising he had no clue what the time was.

“Almost,” she murmured back, her voice low with sleepiness. She was smiling, though. Jean could always tell by her voice. “How are you?”

“Same old. Look, I’m, uh, sorry for not calling sooner.”

“I know, it’s okay.” She kept a brief pause, maybe changing the phone to her other ear or just taking a more comfortable position. “Did you want to talk about something or?”

“Nah, just letting you know I’m still alive.” He chuckled awkwardly, chewed on his lip. “Do you believe how fucking hard it is to pick up the goddamn phone?”

“I miss you.”

“Yeah, I know, me too.”

“Come by this week?”

“Yeah, sure, definitely.” He knew it sounded exactly like all the other promises he had made before, the ones he had eventually broken or abandoned, but he really wanted to keep this one. This time he’d make a difference. “I can make it tomorrow if, uh, you guys ain’t busy.” She yawned, unable to hold it back this time.

“Tomorrow suits fine,” her voice barely a mumble. “I’ll call you tomorrow after I get off work.”

“Cool. G’night.”

“Night, Jean.” When the call ended, he sat with the phone against his ear for a while before he let it drop in his lap. He could walk all over their friendship and be the selfish asshole he undoubtedly always had been and still was, and yet, after every long silence, they were there. They all were. Time after time. However shitty he was and however selfishly he acted, he was always forgiven and always welcomed back with open arms, as if he deserved to be anything but punched in the face. He treated them all like they didn’t matter, like they were something he could just put away and take out whenever _he_ felt like it, when in fact they were the only people in his life who had stayed through the storm. The _storms_ , the numerous, violent storms, that was.

Yet here he sat, pining after some guy who had walked out the second he’d found out who Jean really was. He had painted sweet, rosy pictures with him and Jean on the walls with happy endings and Jean didn’t even believe in them. He didn’t believe in love stories or hand-holding or first dates or any of that crap. Yet he missed Marco over the only people in his life that had, from day one, accepted him as he was.

And what he was, he was an egoistic asshole with a ridiculous amount of issues, and he kept gathering more issues on top of old issues, kept them alive by feeding them his insecurities and nightmares. He kept hanging onto them because he was afraid, he was terrified. When he acted like this, he didn’t have to make an effort, he didn’t have to give second chances to people.

But he still couldn’t stop the heartbreak from taking over. Sitting in the dark, staring at the nothing ahead of him, he missed Marco. He couldn’t reason it away. He couldn’t stop wondering that if maybe, _if maybe_ , there could’ve been a different ending if, maybe, he had been different.

If maybe he had given up sooner.

It had worked out for other people; maybe it could have worked out for Jean.

If maybe he had let himself become vulnerable, for Marco.

If maybe his need for control hadn’t outpaced his need to be loved.

There, on the couch, the phone still in his lap he woke up in the morning. And for the first time after Marco had left, he felt nothing. It was comforting, as far as emptiness went. The pain seemed to have vacated his body for the time being, and he lit up a cigarette. Maybe this was the perfect ending for the whole thing. Complete silence, and uncertainty never to be completely erased. Marco would move on with his life, pretending all these things that were not and did not exist, because he was so goddamn good at it. Jean, he would fix himself yet again. He’d move on, too.

The hours Jean had to spend somehow he spent lying still, listening to the humming of the silence and the faraway noises out on the streets, the low murmuring of cars and the sounds echoing in the hallway, his neighbours talking and opening doors, their heels making contact with the linoleum on the hallway floors, their lives intertwining and then separating, over and over and over again.

The whole time, the time that held within itself a small lifetime with birth and death and all, Jean just lay on his couch, his face pressed in the coarse fabric of the furniture. He thought he smelled Marco on it. One day he’d learn to hate the smell, he’d learn to despise it. Right now it served as a reminder of all the things other people could have, but not him. He’d move on, too. Find another way to destroy himself or to keep himself from getting destroyed, whichever came first.

Christa sounded warm when she finally called. Warm and welcoming; like home. Jean had almost given up the idea of showering and putting on a sociable mask, but he really did miss Christa. Ymir, too, although they didn’t talk about those things. Only Christa could ever turn him into this more sensitive and softer version of himself. In different circumstances, in a different lifetime, in a different mindset, he swore he could’ve fallen for the girl.

He met her halfway to her place, hiding the sleepless nights behind a pair of sunglasses. It was cloudy that day, but Christa didn’t ask questions. She squeezed Jean into a hug that could’ve cracked a weaker man’s spine in half, the smell of her perfume surrounding him, and he forgot Marco’s scent for the time being. She didn’t ask any questions, not about the cut on his lip, just held him like she always did until she was satisfied, and then he brought up her work just to have something to talk about for the rest of the walk. He wasn’t completely sure what she did for work, and maybe she preferred it that way. She always emphasized it was her _job_ , not her _career_ , because if it was her career, it would’ve meant she was there to stay until she’d be old enough to roll over and die.

Jean laughed and she smiled.

Ymir was a great cook but she hated cooking, so instead of a home-cooked meal, they were greeted by take-out she had ordered. The bottle of wine, well, that might’ve been by Jean’s request. The other bottle was because Ymir knew him too well, although he protested and she promised to take half of the blame in case he was hungover the next day.

It wasn’t about the food or the alcohol or even the insane shoulder massage Ymir gave him after he had whined long enough, it was about the fact that they let him sit in silence which Christa mostly filled, bless her kind heart, and it was about forcing the real world stay put in the backburner for a little while. It was still there, though, it was in the uneasiness and the fidgeting; chewing his lip and picking his fingers; in things he couldn’t control, not entirely. He’d be forced to step outside eventually unless he moved to live in their closet, which, after a couple of glasses of wine, didn’t sound at all like a horrible idea. Except to Ymir, but she was a killjoy.

“I’m thinking of going to school.” Ymir ran her finger around the rim of her glass, smudging a dried wine stain on the side a little. She wiped her finger on her jeans. “Study something. Maybe languages.”

“Mm,” Jean hummed around a mouthful of wine. The wine felt smooth and velvety going down, silencing unneeded thoughts in his head. “Oh. Cool. You should, totally.”

“I’d love to do something physical, like, maybe become a sports masseur, but eh, I don’t know.” She shrugged lopsidedly, clicking her tongue sharply. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“So you gonna apply here or?”

“That’s the thing.” She leaned back on the floor, taking support from her other hand, her legs crossed, glancing at Christa in the kitchen, some feet away. The couch blocked Jean’s view where he sat face to face to Ymir, so he didn’t see what she saw. She straightened up, shifting her legs a little under her. “We’d probably have to move, and I mean Christa’s already looking for another job, I guess five years in the same place’s enough, but…”

“But.”

“But. Man, I don’t know, I’ve lived here my whole life, it weirds me out.” She rolled her eyes at herself, as if to dismiss what she had just said. “I mean unlike many people think, I don’t hate this place, not entirely. I _could_ live here for the rest of my life, wouldn’t bother me.”

“Among the homophobes and the assholes,” Jean scoffed, more to himself than to her, staring in his now empty glass. It stared back.

“Ain’t so bad, they leave me mostly alone ‘cause I’m bigger than them.” She bared her teeth in a knowing smirk. “Besides, we have _two_ gay bars, we have it better than most places. I never have to hang out with straight people if I don’t wanna.”

“Yeah, until they catch you off guard and beat you up and steal your shit.”

“See, I can’t go anywhere, I have to stay here and protect my precious little Jeanbo from the big bad straights,” Ymir murmured, pouting her lower lip, and it drew an involuntarily loud snort out of Jean. He rolled his eyes, shifted a little.

“I’m thinking of leaving too so don’t worry about me. Hey, maybe we could move to the countryside, get a real big house with four bedrooms and then live there, just the three of us.”

“Yeah and if we ever want babies, you can just impregnate both of us and we’d be one, big, twisted but happy family!” Ymir squealed.

“So gross, I’m in.”

“Hey Christa,” she called out to the kitchen, leaning back again to see from behind the couch. Christa walked to the doorway with a dish towel in her hands. Couldn’t leave the dishes alone even now. “You wanna move to the countryside and have Jean’s babies?” Her eyes widened just a bit as she looked from Ymir to Jean holding a hand tightly over his grin. She blinked.

“Yeah, I’ll—I’ll pass,” she murmured and backed to the kitchen.

“The babies aren’t mandatory,” Jean mumbled from behind his hand, and Ymir barked with laughter, spilling some wine on her shirt.

“So anyway,” she mused when she finally got over her laughing fit, drying the wine on her shirt with some more shirt, making it look like a Pollock painting. “Where you going? Moving somewhere to live happily ever after with prince whatshisface?” A cheeky, self-approving smile appeared on her face.

“Unlikely,” Jean replied, completely surprised by just how little the subject pained him now. Sure, there was that forceful sting in his chest that made him wince when it pushed through his flesh and bones, but it was easy to ignore like most of the unwanted, loud voices in his head. At least they weren’t arguing right now. He stared in the glass while Ymir stared at him, contemplating, trying to read Jean.

“Alright,” she spoke tentatively after a moment’s short silence, Christa’s humming carrying from the kitchen. Contemplating whether to push further or not, she squinted at Jean. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Just don’t.” The drop in the tone of his voice was enough to make Ymir back down from the immediate responses that came to her mind. Okay, so the subject wasn’t completely painless. Jean knew Ymir would end up trying to say something well-meant and heartfelt with a side of humour and it would end up sounding clumsy and awkward, pretty much how Jean sounded most of the time, and he couldn’t really deal with it now.

“Okay, sorry,” Ymir said slowly, her eyebrows scrunching together. “I’m just gonna go ahead and take that as a yes.” She was, whether she realised it or not, poking a bear that really didn’t like to be poked.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” was the blunt response. The humming in the kitchen had stopped, and both Ymir and Jean startled slightly as Christa popped in the living room, smiling and completely clueless to the swift that had happened meanwhile in the atmosphere.

“More wine?” she chirped, waving the bottle in the air. Jean wasn’t quick enough to erase the sulkiness from his face and Ymir wasn’t very good at trying to pretend, so it didn’t take Christa _too_ long to catch up. Two seconds at most. When she did, her own smile fell and her eyebrows knitted together in a worried frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ymir was faster than Jean. She didn’t stop at that though. “Jean doesn’t want to talk about it.” She looked at Jean sheepishly; she knew _exactly_ what she had done wrong.

“Oh come _on_ ,” Jean protested, raising his gaze from the glass enough to glare at Ymir and her big, yappy mouth.

“Sorry, I panicked,” Ymir blurted. “She’s just looking at me like _that_ , I can’t lie to her.”

“I’m fine,” Jean answered the question Christa didn’t ask before she could ask it. “Just tired.” He extended his glass as Christa walked to him, screwing the cork open and pouring the dark, velvety red liquid in the awaiting glass. She hummed, her lips pursing.

“Well if you feel like talking…”

“It’s fine, I’m fine.” Maybe if he repeated the words enough they’d become true and he could believe them. Christa didn’t ask questions, she never did, she had the tasteful discreteness about her that most people around Jean lacked. She even shushed Ymir subtly when the girl rolled her eyes with a loud groan. She ran her fingers through Ymir’s hair as she passed the girl sitting on the floor, and in that fleeting moment Ymir leaned into the touch like she could absolutely not live without it, and maybe that’s exactly how it was. Jean had never really paid attention to the people around him, not to the way they acted together; as couples, how the gazes they exchanged held worlds in between them, worlds of secrets and promises and things no one outside could ever understand. It was easier to understand now, suddenly, easier to relate to. Funny how he was only now seeing it, seeing just how much Ymir worshipped Christa, how much she had given of herself to the girl. Jean couldn’t imagine how much she had given _up_ for the girl, how many of the things she had thought to be one day she had abandoned just because Christa had turned out to be much more important and solid than any of those things.

“Hey,” Jean cut short Ymir’s longing, syrupy gazes, and in a heartbeat Ymir was back with the underlying cockiness in her eyes as she lazily shifted her focus from Christa to him. “Can I ask you something?”

“No, we won’t have a threesome with you,” she said cheekily, took a gulp of wine.

“Hilarious. So, look, hypothetically…” Jean kept a break long enough to fidget for Ymir to snort and almost retort to saying something dumb. “Say, uh, what if, um, Christa did something stupid in her past.”

“Oh, is this one of those ‘so my friend did a thing where I’m actually the friend and—’”

“No. Also shut up. _Hypothetically_ —”

“What kinda stupid thing?” Ymir interrupted, cocked her head to the side lazily, looked anything _but_ intruiged.

“I don’t know. Killed someone?”

“Why would’ve she killed someone?”

“I dunno, look, just hypothetically. She did something really stupid in her past, something, I don’t know, something hard to forgive or whatever.”

“Okay, I’ll play.” She placed her glass on the floor, close enough to reach it in dire need and leaned forward, played curious for Jean’s sake. “So she killed someone, what about it?”

“Say she did it before you two were together or anything. And then, I dunno, she confessed one day, how would you react?”

“’Oh cool, how did you kill them?’”

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

“Act like a normal person. Normal people wouldn’t say shit like that.”

“Normal people like who? Hello, have we met?” She spread her arms, gave Jean the look she always used when she wanted to make people feel stupid. Jean would’ve responded with an eye-roll had it made a difference, but this was Ymir; she got off on making people frustrated.

“Okay maybe she didn’t kill anyone, maybe she, like, I don’t know, was an assassin? Maybe she killed _many_ people.”

“Cool.” Her hand reached for her glass as Jean groaned.

“Not cool, you freak,” he said flatly, watched displeased as she downed her wine, shrugged her shoulders when she was done. Burped.

“Takes one to know another,” she croaked, a hiccup to end her sentence.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Jean pressed. “You just proved my point.” Ymir scoffed.

“What do you want me to say? Okay, for real, though. She says she killed someone. What about it? I’d ask her if she wants to tell me why and who it was and why is she telling me that.”

“Okay, she says it was for self-defence, she really had no choice and she never got caught.”

“Alright, well, um. If it was for self-defence, I get it. But why is she telling me this?”

“Because she wants to be honest with you.”

“Yeah, I really don’t care if she killed someone. I mean, okay, maybe I do a _little_ , but I love her and if anyone tried to hurt her, I’d kill them too, so…” Her eyes narrowed; her patience was wearing thin, no matter how _hypothetical_ Jean’s accusations and suggested scenarios were. “You satisfied now?”

“So you’d just forgive her, just like that?” Jean pressed on, avoiding the nasty look Ymir tried to shoot at him.

“Forgive her? What is there to forgive? Some asshole tried to get handsy with her, probably deserved to get offed.” Once more she just shrugged her shoulders, tried to drink more, only to find the bottom of the glass and nothing else. She stared in the glass as if it was whispering the next week’s lottery numbers to her or something. She startled slightly when Jean spoke.

“A person _died_ , how does that not bother you?”

“I hope this ain’t gonna lead to you confessing a murder to me,” she mumbled, putting the glass back on the floor. Jean’s sounds of protest were plenty and loud.

“I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Okay, so what is this about then?”

“What if she was a prostitute?”

“Did she kill someone as a prostitute?”

“No, forget the killing thing. This is another hypothetical situation.”

“What about it?”

“Just… Please try, Ymir.”

“Fine.” Her jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. The next sentence sounded like it pained her physically. “She told me she was a prostitute. When did this happen?”

“Before you two met.”

“Okay, I don’t care.” She took a long pause, and before Jean could get restless and pry into it more, she suppressed a rather deep sigh. “ _Unless_ she wants to talk about it in which case I’m here for her.”

“You don’t care?” Jean shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was, not after having seen Ymir worship Christa like she was a goddess, but he wanted to find one flaw, one indication that other couples were just as messed up, just as imperfect.

“I don’t care,” she said effortlessly.

“You’re not like, disgusted? Horrified? Angry?”

“ _No_.”

“Why?”

“Would you be angry?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll make this easy for ya. She’s my girlfriend, I fucking love her and I would never, ever think she was disgusting. What I think is disgusting is the men who hire prostitutes.”

“So say she hired a prostitute?”

“No. She wouldn’t do that.”

“But if—”

“ _No_.” End of Ymir’s patience, Jean was lucky that he wasn’t sitting closer to her, or he might’ve gotten smacked. “And I’m getting sick of this game.” She crossed her arms across her chest, but quickly uncrossed them when she couldn’t keep herself straight without taking support on the floor.

“How could you not be disgusted thinking about all the men she fucked for money?”

“Well, first of all, she wouldn’t do that, ever. Secondly, I have a friend who’s a call girl and as long as she’s fine doing it, _I’m_ fine with her doing it. I mean you were a stripper, how can you shame sex workers like that?”

“I’m not, Jesus, I’m not… No, I’m just saying.”

“What _are_ you saying?” She stared at Jean, who in turn stared at his own hands, measured the length of his fingernails closely.

“Some people would,” he said quietly.

“I’m not one of those people. I love my girlfriend, with her mistakes and flaws and past and all. Not that she has any flaws, duh.”

“Oh.”

“’Oh’? So what is this really about?”

“Nothing, I just…” Of all the lousy excuses, he went with the lousiest. “I was thinking about the last time, the, uh, about what you said. How you know Christa inside out and—”

“So would Marco be one of those people?”

“So now you remember his name?”

“Does he know you were a stripper?”

“Yes.” He saw Ymir’s eyebrows raising, knew perfectly well she was waiting for him to elaborate, but he let her beg for it first.

“And?” She did, couldn’t contain her curiosity.

“And what? And nothing.”

“He’s cool with it?”

“Yeah. I even gave him a lap dance once.”

“ _Ha_. Man, I wish I could’ve seen that.”

“No, you really don’t. He jizzed his pants.”

“Oh my god.” The cackling sounds Ymir made were like a bunch of hyenas having a laughing contest, and she really didn’t hold anything back. “Oh my _god_ , I really wish I could’ve seen it.”

“Aren’t you lesbian enough yet?”

“Screw you, I could’ve taped it and use it to blackmail him some. I mean he’s _loaded_ , no pun intended.” Jean cracked a smile to which Ymir responded with a wolfish smile, her lips and teeth dark red from the wine. “Totally was. Seriously, how’s it going with you two?” There was an eyebrow wiggle that Jean ignored.

“Meh,” Jean replied lethargically. It was the wine, taking the edge off things that felt like little ends of the world when sober. He shrugged lazily and drank some more, preparing himself for another series of questions. Ymir’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment Jean felt like he was the prey and Ymir was the hunter, and she was ready to jump him any second now.

“Come _on_ , I’ve always told you everything,” Ymir then whined, the whole hunter vibe turning into a big baby act, and Jean scoffed disapprovingly.

“Yeah, even when I really didn’t wanna know.”

“You are _so_ boring.”

“I’d just like to think I’m more than some stupid relationship.”

“That would apply if you’d had relationships in the past,” Ymir casually pointed out, pretending she didn’t see Jean’s whole face scrunch up. “Right now it’s _the_ most interesting thing about you.”

“I hate you.”

“Doesn’t matter, I _am_ going to make you spill the beans.”

“Just stop, for the love of everything gay, just fucking stop.”

“Okay, you know what, whatever. I don’t wanna know.”

“Your reverse psychology bullshit don’t work on me.”

“I’m gonna go get Christa soon.”

“Oh, playing tough now, huh?”

“She’s gonna make you _weep_.”

“Right.”

“You gonna open your heart up like never before.”

“Stop.”

“At the end of the night you gonna be singing karaoke, I’m thinking… That Titanic song.”

“I’m more of a Tina Turner type of guy but whatever.”

“Maybe we should get your super drunk and then call your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyf—you know what, shut up.”

“He _is_ , isn’t he?”

“If I wasn’t tipsy, I’d smash your head in.”

“Nah, that’s because I’m stronger than you.”

“One time, _one_ time you beat me at arm wrestling.”

“Well we only did it once. I’ll give you another massage if you tell me.”

“What am I supposed to tell you?”

“Are you two together?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Probably not.” Slowly, ever so slowly it started creeping up on him; the uneasiness that made his skin crawl and his lungs feel like he couldn’t get enough air although he was drowning in it. Bit by bit it was tearing him to pieces, lurking behind the dusty corners of his mind. He couldn’t push it away, not even with the sweet, blissful dullness that veiled his mind now. He could see the bad thoughts through it, blurry, but they were there, they were always there.

Ymir wasn’t as good at reading people as Christa was, but she wasn’t blind by any means. Hardly ever did they touch subjects that were _too_ sore or easy to catch fire and burn their fingers, because neither of them was too good at saying comforting things. It was alright for as long as it was harmless and tongue-in-cheek, but the minute things took a serious turn, they both usually backed down. So she kept quiet for a moment, but Jean knew this wasn’t the end of that discussion. There was a can of worms in the middle of the room, just begging to be opened. Ymir emptied her glass, fidgeted it in her hand, stared at the bottom of it.

“You don’t know because you haven’t talked about it or—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You, um, want me to get Christa? You know she’s better at this than…”

“It’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” Christa gave them both another mild heart attack as she jumped on the sofa over the back, a freshly filled wine glass on her hand.

“Jean’s having boyfriend trouble,” Ymir spoke so fast that the words came out jumbled together.

“I fucking hate you, Ymir.”

“Oh, Jean,” Christa cooed, and Jean was tempted to ask her if she thought she was talking to a puppy or a baby. “He’s your boyfriend? I’m so happy for you!” If she hadn’t been holding the glass, she would’ve surely jumped off the couch to hug Jean, and he was thankful she didn’t. He’d had enough physical contact for one day.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jean mumbled awkwardly. “Let’s talk about something else.” He didn’t see the two girls exchanging glances but he assumed they did, judging from the ear-deafening silence that surrounded them immediately.

“Okay,” Christa was the one to dare to speak first, her voice unsure as she tried to sound casual. “What do you wanna talk about?”

“I dunno, I need to take a piss,” he steered away from the conversation and pushed himself up on his feet that felt numb, completely aware of the fact that the second he’d be out of the room, the girls would change yet another glance that would feel heavy in the air when he got back. He didn’t wait for permission or approval but placed his glass neatly on the coffee table and walked out of the small living room.

He could hear their voices, barely, to the bathroom, and he recognised Christa’s higher voice over Ymir’s low, husky way of talking. They were undoubtedly dissecting him and whatever he had said, trying to decide whether to bring it up again or leave it alone, like the enormous pink elephant in the middle of the room.

The bathroom was half the size of his, and he felt claustrophobic and nauseous, the mint green tile walls closing in on him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to do this anymore, and what was worse, he wasn’t sure if this had been a horrible idea all along. He could trust Ymir to back off but with them two together, they always found a balance and it meant that they would _ask_ , oh so many questions before the night was over.

Jean wasn’t sure if he could handle it without snapping, without causing a scene and then blocking the girls for another three months.

No matter how hard he stared at his own reflection, it didn’t give him any answers. He fought the urge to put his fist through the thick glass, held himself back from taking the things closest to him and smashing them on the floor. Instead, he suffocated the sparks flashing red-hot in his mind by holding his breath until he forgot what got him so upset in the first place.

When he arrived back into the living room, the girls were chatting lightly, relaxed, Ymir’s head leaned against Christa’s knee bent on the couch, her fingers in Ymir’s hair. Ymir didn’t even bother looking at Jean when he sat back on the floor, his hands finding the glass from the table, and he didn’t bother saying anything that might bring the attention to him. Christa stopped talking only for as long as it took her to acknowledge Jean with the slightest smile, and then she was talking again, Ymir listening to her. Jean, not so much.

 

“So, Jean,” Ymir’s voice drew Jean out of his drowsy state, and he focused on the girl, the music in the background making the air pulsate softly around them. “What if Marco did something stupid?” He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the question.

“What?”

“Hypothetically.” It took a lot of effort for Jean to get on board of what Ymir was talking about, and Ymir followed the battle inside Jean’s head closely as it finally dawned on him.

“Oh,” he said shortly. “Nah, he’s too… He’s too perfect for that.” He tried, he _really_ tried to tone down the bitterness, the stupid, childish stubbornness, but when had he ever been able to fool anyone.

“No one’s perfect, Jean,” Ymir responded matter-of-factly.

“What can I say, he seems to be,” his voice was dry and it cracked as he uttered a short laugh. “See, the kind of stupid he does turns out to be not so stupid, while everyone else, we’re fucking morons.” Ymir’s eyebrow twitched, but her face gave nothing away, yet.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about,” he stopped for a moment, to take a breath or to try to remember something, it didn’t matter. “I’m talking about what a fucking idiot I am.” The silence after his words stretched on, until it was uncomfortable and unwanted. The glances the girls exchanged Jean noticed this time, no matter how subtle or brief they tried to be. He took it as his cue to get up and leave, even when Christa called after him and tried to make him stay. He made it all the way to the front door and then Ymir was suddenly blocking his way, looming over him in a way that was even more intimidating than usually. She crossed her arms across her chest, her biceps bulging under the skin, and took a deep breath, looking at Jean down her nose with a scornful look on her face. She could’ve made an excellent bodyguard. Jean wasn’t in the mood to play these games, so he threw his arms at his sides, challenging Ymir by staring back at her.

“Just spit it out,” he sighed in annoyance, blowing the air out sharply. “I don’t have the fucking energy for this.”

“Oh boohoo, Jean, find the energy somewhere then,” Ymir shot back. “Christa doesn’t have the heart to say it ‘cause she’s a nice person but I’m not. You owe her, remember?”

“I’ll send her flowers.”

“Screw you, she really missed you, you know.” The deep line in between her eyebrows told Jean she was serious, which meant she wasn’t letting Jean off easily. “And just because you have some fucking boyfriend trouble don’t give you no right to treat your friends like this.” It hit Jean right where it hurt, because she wasn’t wrong. It always had to be about him, didn’t it. The way she put it, it sounded ridiculous, and all of a sudden Jean _felt_ ridiculous, too.

“It’s not that,” he protested, although weakly, trying to tell himself that was the truth. He knew he couldn’t convince Ymir anyway.

“What is it then?” Ymir wasn’t considerate enough to take a step back and let Jean gather up an excuse; instead, she hovered over Jean even more, making him feel extremely small and pathetic.

“I dunno,” he admitted, because it was easier than admitting to it being exactly what she thought it was.

“Look,” Ymir softened slightly, the deep frown disappearing. “So you got a boyfriend. You know, it’s, it’s shit sometimes. Mostly ‘cause guys _are_ shit, but hey, I guess it works out for some people.” Jean let out a dry sound that was too lazy to be a chuckle, but he smiled, slightly.

“You are even worse at this than I am.”

“Not possible, I have more experience of this.” She grinned, the intimidating hostility gone. “Relationships suck sometimes, I mean, they suck _a lot_ sometimes, and you have to make compromises and sometimes the compromises make neither of you perfectly happy. But in the end, it’s worth the trouble. You’ll get to suffer together, you know?”

“Yeah, I, uh, I dunno,” Jean sighed, and he ran his hands over his face, hoping it would wipe everything that had happened off. “I don’t think that applies to this situation.”

“So do you want me to get Christa _now_? I mean I have more experience than you but she’s—”

“Let’s just—you know, let’s not, uh, talk about this. Besides, I don’t wanna worry her.”

“Man, it’s _way_ too late for that,” Ymir snorted, the words more or less sarcastic.

“Why does everyone have to _constantly_ worry about me like I’m some fucking kid.”

“Yeah, hey, remember when you once ignored us for three months?”

“No,” Jean pouted, ignoring Ymir’s stares. He crossed his own arms across his chest, hunching a little.

“Just get your ass back in the living room and stop whining.” She didn’t even give Jean enough time to protest, just shoved him on the shoulder and marched him back to the other room like a prison officer. Then she made him apologise to Christa for being a big baby. Her words.

He would’ve felt better if Christa had been even remotely angry, upset, or disappointed, but he had never seen her like that and he probably never was going to, which meant maybe there was at least one person in the universe he couldn’t piss off.

“It’s alright,” she smiled, the lioness in her sleeping, forgiving. “More wine?”

He didn’t confine to them. He couldn’t find the words to tell them; he could only create unfinished sentences that didn’t come anywhere near the truth, so he figured, maybe later. Maybe when all of this had blown over, he would tell them. Maybe when his bags were packed, his apartment empty, he would tell them. He didn’t know yet _what_ it was that he was going to tell them, but he’d come to that. He’d find the words, later.

By the time he left staggering the girls’ apartment, proudly refusing a cab they were trying to call him, he had found his words, but not the ones he had been looking for.

He took those words behind Marco’s door. The walk to his building seemed shorter than he remembered, but the stairs seemed to stretch on forever. Every step could’ve either made him change his mind and turn back or keep pushing him forward, and he chose to focus on the latter. He was here already, wasn’t he?

It was quiet, dark, no life echoing in the halls, except for Jean’s, and he was loud. He knocked on Marco’s door without giving himself time to think; at first it was knuckles gently against the surface, then it was a fist banging on it.

“Marcooooo, come on Marcooo, open up,” he leaned against the door, talking through it into the apartment. “I know yer in there.” For the longest time there was no answer; just the silence surrounding him, making him eerily aware of just how quiet it was. He imagined the shadows around him holding their breath, hiding on the walls, waiting for what was going to happen.

He banged the door again, irritated by now. His patience was wearing thin, and it was wearing thin fast.

“Open uuuup or I’ll wake up all your—”

The door snapped open with enough force to cut Jean short, and Marco, he looked anything but happy. His hair was of enough indication he had been deep asleep, and he was squinting in the bright light of his hallway.

“Jean,” he croaked, didn’t ask, and held back a yawn, his jaw clenching. His voice hoarse from the sleep, he cleared his throat. “ _What_ are you doing here? It’s 4.30 in the _morning_.”

“Oops,” Jean replied monotonously. “I happened to be in the neib—neighbourhood, and I remembered, hey, my _boyfriend_ lives ‘ere.” The word sharp, like a stab in the gut.

“It’s 4.30 in the morning,” Marco repeated as if he was just worried Jean hadn’t heard him the first time and not entirely irritated. “I was sleeping.”

“But you’re not anymore,” Jean slurred, pointing a finger at Marco.

“That’s not the point.” Marco’s voice was tight, and there wasn’t much room for Jean to push before he would push back, he could tell. He pushed anyway.

“Aren’t you gunna invite me in?” he asked. “Or d’you wanna talk out here? I mean, I’m just thinking ‘bout your neighbours…” Marco might have been annoyed, but he was polite, too. He _still_ couldn’t tell Jean off, so he opened the door more, and without a word, Jean slithered in through the crack. He didn’t take his shoes or jacket off, and he didn’t move further than the hallway. The hallway was a good place to have this conversation as any. At least Jean could get out fast after he was done.

“Why are you here?” Marco asked the second the door was shut, as soon as he trusted that both their voices were sure to remind in the safety of his apartment. “And… are, are you _drunk_?” He sounded shocked, and Jean snorted.

“Of course I’m _drunk_ ,” he mocked Marco’s tone, pretending he didn’t see the greyish disapproval on his face. The resemblance between his and Connie’s faces of disappointment and disapproval was uncanny. “Booze’s the only thing in life that never lets me down.” He had made his point clear, crystal so, but the disapproval didn’t disappear.

“I am not having this conversation now,” Marco replied dryly. He sounded fed up and tired, neither of which surprised Jean. “I have to be up in about two hours.”

“No point going back to bed, then.”

“I’m going back to sleep and I suggest you do the same.” Then, with a harmless sounding question, he made absolutely sure Jean understood where he wanted him right now. “Do you need me to call you a taxi?” The temperature in the apartment seemed to drop by various degrees, as far as the shivers running up and down Jean’s backs went. They stared at each other for a moment and then another, Marco’s gaze easier to tolerate this time. Mostly because Jean couldn’t see it too clearly.

“I see,” Jean hummed after a while, crossing his arms across his chest. It helped him to keep himself composed, to keep himself from swaying too much. “You’re getting real good at this whole avoiding things… thing.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a fucking coward.”

“Don’t you think that’s the tiniest bit of hypocritical coming from you?” Marco snapped, and although he immediately regretted his tone, the annoyance remained. The next time he spoke, his voice was quieter. “Also you—you come here at 4.30 in the morning, _drunk_ , and you _seriously_ think that’s a good way to start a conversation?”

“Still, we’re conversing,” Jean pointed out, shrugging. Marco took a deep breath, probably forcing himself to calm down. “And yeah, it’s pretty fucking hypocritical of me, but you’re s’posed to be better than me, so…”

“Do _not_ do that, I do _not_ think I’m better than you.” Marco couldn’t hold his voice down anymore. “I am _so_ tired of you constantly doing this, playing some kind of martyr and making me feel like _I’m_ the bad guy here. I _never_ thought I was better than you, I _never_ did that.”

Jean didn’t say anything. There was nothing he could’ve said.

“I’m going to bed,” Marco continued when Jean kept quiet, avoiding his gaze once again. “I’m not—I’m not doing this now.”

“When are you doing it then?” Jean asked, his voice fragile. He wasn’t sure what it was he had thought he could say; all the things in his mind gone now, he felt extremely self-conscious and stupid, standing here, uninvited and very much unwanted. He didn’t look at Marco, he couldn’t.

“Not right now,” Marco said. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can—”

“Oh _tomorrow_ , you’ll call me _tomorrow_ —”

“I’m not having this conversation right now.”

“No? _No_?” Jean’s voice rose, almost hysterically. He looked at Marco. “You said you’ll call me tomorrow three fucking _days_ ago.”

“Jean—”

“I get it, my time’s not valuable like yours, you can just keep me waiting for as long as you goddamn want to, there’s shit I can do about it, right? My time doesn’t matter, _I_ don’t have anything better than to wait for _you_ , right?”

Marco looked sorry. He did, but it didn’t make Jean feel any less shitty. Standing there, feeling all kinds of nauseous he suddenly remembered why he came in the first place, and he wasn’t leaving until he’d get it all out of his system.

“I know, I’ve been busy,” Marco said sheepishly, casting his eyes down. “I’ve had so much work and—”

“It would’ve taken you _five_ minutes to call me, _five_ minutes of your fucking life.”

“I was going to call when I actually had time to sit down and talk with you.”

“Well I’m ‘ere now, so say what’s on your mind,” Jean pressured, his arms extended on his sides; waiting. “End my misery, will ya?”

“I told you,” Marco said calmly, but the look on his face gave away just how exhausted he was. “I need to go to bed, I can’t do this now, not with you.”

“Not with _me_?” Jean scoffed, shook his head with disbelief. “Jesus, it’ll take you two minutes to say what you wanna say, that is, if you _can_ say it.” Jean kept pushing. He thought that maybe, if he could just crack Marco enough, he would say it, whatever _it_ was. Jean knew it wasn’t anything he wanted to hear, but he _needed_ to hear it. “Can you like, for once in your life be honest about what you’re thinking? Just fucking say it.”

“What is it that you want me to say, huh? What is it that you _think_ I’m going to say?”

“How am I s’posed to know that?”

“Well you seem to have a clear vision of what I’m thinking about so why don’t _you_ go ahead and say it.”

“See, you’re _still_ avoiding everything, _still_ just—”

“Because I said I don’t wanna have this conversation right now!”

“Just say it, say how fucking disgusted you are and—”

“ _Yes_ , I’m disgusted, I’m disgusted that you could do something like that to yourself!” Jean heard the crack. “I’m disgusted because after we had sex the first time you were so _upset_ I tried to pay you, and you told me you weren’t, that, you said you weren’t like _that_ , that you didn’t do that, and I can’t, I can’t figure it out, I can’t figure out why you were so upset if…”

“If what?” There was an enormous lump in Jean’s throat; so enormous he was choking on it.

“If, after all, that’s exactly what you are and what you do.” The words came out fast, draining the last of Marco’s energy and courage with them. The dark circles under his eyes turned darker; his skin pale and greyish.

“It’s not,” Jean shook his head, the lump making it difficult to talk. “It’s not what I am or what I do.”

“No?”

“ _No_. And I was upset because I thought you were different, because I thought, I dunno, that maybe you wouldn’t treat me like a whore.” He shrugged helplessly, trying to escape the hollow emptiness spreading inside of him. “I had sex with you because I wanted to, and big surprise, I actually liked it.”

“I didn’t pay you for the sex,” Marco said quietly, his voice gentle. “I paid you because that’s what you told me to do or you weren’t coming back.”

“I would’ve come back,” Jean said before he had time to even register the thought.

“Would you have?”

“I dunno. Maybe. Probably not.” The silence fell upon them, and it echoed around them, hopeless and broken. Both of their eyes on the ground, the short distance in between them deep like a canyon. “Maybe.”

“Look,” Marco begun, searching for the words. “I’m… I don’t know what to do, I really don’t.”

“Just,” Jean’s shoulders rose, and then they fell back down, in an utterly hopeless motion. “Forget about it and move on.”

“I can’t do that,” Marco said quietly; ashamedly. “I can’t pretend that—that…”

“But you’re _so_ good at pretending.” Jean knew he really hadn’t wanted to say it out loud the second he had. “No, I, I didn’t mean—”

“How could you do it to yourself? How could you let yourself be—be _abused_ like that?” The question threw Jean off guard, and he was left gaping like a dying fish on dry land.

“I—,” he started, wounding his arms back around himself. “It wasn’t abuse, trust me, I’ve been there. I don’t know what you wanna hear, but there’s—there’s no secret, there’s no hidden reason behind it. I did it because I, because it was the only thing I knew how to do. Because it was easy, because—I mean, that’s it. There’s no big secret or mystery to it, Marco, I did what I did for money, because that’s what I needed to survive. Nothing _made_ me do it, it was just the easiest thing I knew I could do to make money.”

“Is that how lowly you think of yourself?”

“No, that… No. It doesn’t matter. I know you can’t understand because if you tried, you’d have to put yourself in my shoes and then admit to yourself that not everyone has it the same. We’re not all born with fucking silver spoons shoved up our asses like you were.” There was a small spot of dirt on the floor and Jean kept his eyes tightly fixated on it, drawing his strength from it. “We’re dealt different hands, and this is mine. Yours is a flush and mine, I have nothing. I’ve got absolutely nothing and that’s where I come from.”

“Just because you come from a different background doesn’t mean you can’t choose better than this, Jean.” He made it sound oh so simple. It was one of those things that made Jean wonder whether anything that Marco said was really what he wanted to say, or if he just repeated the fairy tales he had told himself for so long.

“Don’t you think I don’t know that? Don’t you think I don’t spend nights awake thinking of all the things I could’ve chosen differently, of _all_ the things I could’ve done differently to be a better person and to have a better life? ‘Cause I do, ‘cause I’ve fucked up every good thing in my life and I hate myself for it, every goddamn second of every miserable day. I’ve fucked up, I know that, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Why do you always say that? How it doesn’t matt—”

“’Cause it _doesn’t_!”

“Tell me this; does _anything_ matter to you?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Name one thing, say one thing that—”

“ _You_. _You_ matter to me.” His voice broke and for a second he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make his lungs respond to the desperate signals his brain was sending them.

He couldn’t really explain the way Marco’s face changed. There was a subtlest change, and maybe it wasn’t for the better, Jean wasn’t sure, but at least he didn’t look so disapproving anymore.

Marco’s fingers played with the hem of his shirt.

“It’s almost five in the morning,” he noted absent-mindedly, the lids over his eyes heavy, and the exhaustion dark in his voice. Even his hair seemed lifeless and dull under the fluorescent light. “I’m really tired, Jean.”

“I’m not gonna apologise for what I did,” Jean said stubbornly. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Except that it’s illegal,” Marco mumbled.

“You—I did it for money, Marco, that’s all there is to it. It has nothing to do with you or anyone else.”

“You could’ve just—,” he stopped, his eyes closing for a moment, before he forced them back open with a shake of his head. “—ask me for money.”

“Yeah, of course, because I _love_ owing people money.”

“I don’t care about money, I don’t care if you could never pay back.”

“That’s because you _have_ it.” Jean closed his eyes, felt the alcohol spinning his head violently around, and opened them again. “It’s not your business what I do, especially since I don’t do it anymore. Just fucking let go and move on.”

“How can you just—how can you act like it doesn’t bother you?”

“Because it doesn’t, alright? It’s not like,” he paused, waiting for some kind of an explanation to form itself on his mind, but nothing happened. He sighed, so close to just giving up, lying on the floor face down and letting all of this go. “I dunno. It was just a job like any, it doesn’t matter to me. It’s just my _body_ , it doesn’t _matter_.”

“See, that’s exactly what I can’ understand.” Marco sounded frustrated, and Jean felt the same. “I don’t—”

“I don’t know what you want me to say! Would it make you feel better if I, I dunno, if I cried and told you how shitty I feel? If I said I can’t even look myself in the mirror most days? Because that’s how I’ve felt most of my fucking life, nothing’s changed, not just because I… ‘cause I…” He never finished the sentence. Somehow he couldn’t, not while Marco was standing there, watching through him like he was made of glass. He wasn’t sure if he was able to keep anything hidden.

“So what is it you want me to say, then, Jean?”

“I want you to say it doesn’t matter. That what happened, happened, and it doesn’t change anything.” He didn’t think Marco would, he had never thought it would be that simple. But all the loose ends, all the things unexplained in between them, he needed some kind of a closure. Even if it meant hearing it all come to an end. He needed Marco to make a decision and stick to it.

Marco stayed quiet, his lips between his teeth as he worried them, eyes blank and expressionless. He wasn’t looking at Jean, and eventually he shook his head.

“I need to go to sleep, Jean, we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“If I walk out of that door now, I ain’t coming back. I swear to god.”

“I promise, we’ll talk tomorrow after—”

“Right,” Jean scoffed, shaking his head. “ _After_. There’s always an after, there’s always something in the way. Do you always just _wait_ for problems to disappear on their own?”

“Stop.”

“Do you wait for other people to make the decisions for you? I mean you couldn’t even hold your relationship together with your ex because you couldn’t make a choice between your parents and someone who actually gave a shit about you.” Jean clicked his tongue, the last of the colour draining from Marco’s face. “You’re gonna have to make a choice here, either tell me it’s over or tell me we’ll fix this.”

“Stop, Jean.”

“You can’t even stand up for yourself, not even now.”

“What are you trying to prove here?” Marco’s voice trembled. “Or do you just want to make me lose my temper and argue with you? Is that what you want?”

“I want you to stop pretending like all’s fucking well and tell me what you want in plain fucking English.”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” the trembling voice came as a shout, cracking from the edges, loud enough to leave an echo after it was gone. “I don’t goddamn know, Jean!”

“So you just—”

“ _Stop_ ,” Marco pleaded, the word cut short by a sob. “Just please stop. Please, please, _stop_.” His hands were in his hair, like he was trying to keep his skull from bursting open, his eyes red from the tears he held back.

Jean wasn’t a monster. Maybe he had pushed enough.

“Okay,” he agreed, talking with a softer voice. “I’m sorry.” It was five in the morning. Marco looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes now more visible than ever. Jean really wanted to reach out for Marco, but even he could tell it was a bad idea, so he kept his hands to himself, kept his needs to himself.

“I’ll just go now,” he spoke quietly. “I’m, really, I’m sorry, okay?” He slid past Marco to the door, and the guy stayed quiet. His hands had left his head, and they were fidgeting with his shirt again. His shoulders sunken, he stayed silent, he stayed unmoving.

Jean reached for the door handle, but he wasn’t a monster. He let his hand drop, turned around and walked to Marco, reaching his hand for the guy’s back instead. Marco shivered under his touch, had been shivering the whole time maybe, and his skin was warm through the t-shirt he was wearing.

“I’m sorry,” Jean whispered. “I am. I didn’t mean it, any of it.” He let his hand slide against Marco’s back, letting himself be pulled closer by the taller guy’s gravity.

“I’m tired.”

“Go to sleep.”

He did. Without another word from either of them, Marco started for his bedroom door, the faintest contact of their bodies breaking. It had come nowhere near a closure, but Jean was tired too. Fighting against windmills with deep-rooted beliefs that conflicted with his own beliefs, well, he could do it for an eternity and a day and never win. Marco was a windmill and he wasn’t going to budge, and Jean couldn’t bring himself to destroy him completely.

He turned the lights off in the hallway, rest of the apartment pitch black, and the five minute’s lying down on the couch turned into two hours’ worth sleep. He woke up when Marco did, dry mouth and pounding in his head overpowering his will to move. He listened to Marco pacing the apartment, half-listened to him brushing his teeth, making quick breakfast and putting his stuff together.

When he finally moved, Marco was in the hallway, and he startled when Jean’s head popped up from behind the couch.

“ _Jesus_.”

“No, just me,” Jean managed to mumble out through a yawn. His mouth tasted like death.

“I didn’t know you were still here.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no,” Marco shook his head, the dark circles under his eyes still very much alive. “It’s okay. You can stay here if you want to. We can… we can talk when I get back.”

“It’s fine,” Jean mumbled. In the cold morning light, nothing seemed as urgent as it had in the night. He couldn’t find the strength to really care anymore. “Have a nice day at school.” Something resembling a smile appeared on Marco’s lips, but somehow it made him look even more miserable. Jean smiled back, or at least he tried to.

“Thanks. You don’t have to sleep on the couch, you know.”

“You don’t wanna be late.”

“I’ll see you later?”

“Okay,” Jean yawned again.

“Okay.” Another weak smile that didn’t reach his eyes and kept his dimples almost hidden. Jean waved him off and off he went. When the door shut with a click, Jean crammed himself up and took Marco’s advice, and crashed his bed instead.

The second time he woke up, there was drool on the side of his face, most of it absorbed on the pillow under his head. He listened to the front door open and close, listened the footsteps browsing the apartment, listened them walk closer and then the bedroom door pushed open, and Jean finally opened his eyes.

“Hey,” he mumbled into the pillow. His back was to Marco, and when the guy sat down on the edge, the bed sank slightly. Jean turned around with great difficulty to find Marco hunched on the side of the bed, his head pressed down. His jacket was on.

“What time is it?” Jean asked, letting his eyes slide shut.

“About two,” Marco replied. His voice was flat, completely colourless.

“Oh,” Jean mumbled, barely registering the words, already beginning to drift off. “You got off early.” The pause Marco kept escaped Jean’s attention, and he flinched awake when Marco spoke.

“I left early,” he said with the same, toneless voice. Jean hummed in response, reaching his hand lazily with his eyes shut and locating Marco’s back, he stroked it a few times and then let his hand flop on the bed.

“You wanna come ‘ere with me?” he asked, patting the bed lazily. He expected Marco to comply, to throw his jacket off and crawl next to him, expected him to forget everything outside the bed for the moment. He was too tired to remember just how fucked everything was, but when Marco didn’t respond or move a muscle, he was forced to peel his eyes open again. The nausea of the hangover made the nervousness ten times worse. “Marco?”

Marco’s shoulders sunk, his whole _being_ sunk as his head fell in his awaiting hands, and he buried his face in them, his shoulders quivering when he sobbed loudly. Drawing in a long, shaky breath, he held it in his lungs, before it escaped in the form of another sob, even more hopeless and broken than the first one.

The icy spike that pierced through Jean’s guts almost made him throw up, his chest filling with fear and panic as he pushed himself up, completely clueless of what he was supposed to do. He extended his hand, the shaky limb hovering above Marco’s shoulder, but he wasn’t sure if that was what Marco would have wanted. Maybe the guy needed space, Jean didn’t know, and he had absolutely zero comfort in him to offer Marco.

“Don’t—don’t cry.” He pleaded helplessly, his hand shaking on its own accord, and Marco shrunk, his sobs turning into wails. “No, no, don’t cry.” He wrapped his fingers around Marco’s shoulder, unable to feel the guy’s warmth through his jacket, but the contact made Marco force himself up. His arms around himself, his shoulders tense under Jean’s grip, he sniffed, but held back another sob. He was swaying himself, although only a little, and it broke Jean’s heart, it really did. He squeezed the shoulder, pulling him slightly back, and when Marco obeyed and leaned back, Jean was there to wrap himself around the guy from behind. His broad back against Jean’s chest, it was how Marco had held him after his own confessions of his brother.

It was easier for Marco to give in to the embrace than it had been to Jean, though, and he placed his hands over Jean’s arms, holding onto them, making sure Jean wasn’t letting go any time soon.

And maybe for the first time ever, the silence felt comfortable, welcomed even. Jean didn’t have to explain how lost he was when it came to words, and Marco didn’t feel obliged to explain _anything_. His heavy breathing turned shallower as he, bit by bit, calmed down, relaxed, the tenseness melting out of him.

“I’m sorry.” It was the first thing he said when he trusted his voice enough to not waver, and it shook Jean out of his thoughts.

“Hm?” he responded automatically, his chin rested against Marco’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” Jean felt Marco’s fingers running invisible patterns against his bare arm, the motion either nervousness or embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to… to take that out on y—”

“No, look, no, come on,” Jean squeezed him, the invisible patterns stopping, and he nuzzled his face against Marco’s neck. Inhaled, long and deep, Marco’s scent making shivers run to the tips of his toes. “Stop. You don’t need to apologise.”

“I know people crying make you uncomfortable.”

“I’ll live.” He inhaled, again. “Besides, I owe you one, so…”

“You don’t owe me anything.” The seriousness of Marco’s voice, the detached, defeated tone made Jean shook his head quickly.

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, his lips moving against Marco’s skin. “You don’t need to apologise, is all.”

“Still,” Marco replied, but that was all he said. He fell quiet, the thrum of his heart faint against Jean’s arms under his jacket. Jean could feel his own heart, pressed tightly in between them, jumping a little too fast, like it tried to escape the situation. This close to Marco, this tightly against him, he understood just how messed up it all was, and he understood it wasn’t even under his control. He couldn’t fix himself, but he couldn’t even fix Marco. They were both running towards the edge and they wouldn’t stop until they were over it, spinning out of control and ready to hit the ground beneath.

“I’m tired, Marco,” he mumbled, and the guy in his embrace sighed.

“Do you want to go back to sleep?”

“No, I mean...” He inhaled. “I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of feeling like this.”

“I don’t know what to do, Jean, I really don’t.”

“Me neither,” Jean admitted.

“Everything I’ve said, it’s still true. It hasn’t gone anywhere, I _do_ love you.” Jean felt Marco’s words trembling, his chest momentarily inflating as he took a deep breath, and then he shrunk again, the air blowing out. “But everything’s just… It’s overwhelming. I’m tired, too, and I don’t know what to do.” Just like that, his voice aged a decade, and if Jean could’ve seen his face, he would’ve probably seen deep lines in the corners of his eyes.

“I know.”

“It will all be over when I talk to my parents. I’ll have to tell them the truth eventually, and then I have to find a new apartment, I have to… the internship, it doesn’t pay anything. I’ll have to find a real job for the summer, I’ll have to… I can’t—I can’t work for free.”

“Yeah,” Jean agreed, with the softest voice he could manage.

“And I can’t work two jobs, it’s impossible.”

“I know,” Jean agreed, again, still talking carefully not to scare Marco back into his shell. When he quietened down, Jean worried he should’ve said more, should’ve given some kind of comfort, should’ve… but then Marco spoke again.

“How do you deal with it? The, the stress of money and…” his voice faded out, either because of lack of words or lack of courage to say those words. Jean shrugged, breathing against Marco’s jacket.

“By drinking a lot.”

“Sounds good.” A hint of smile in Marco’s voice, a hint of light in the dark. Jean smiled back, even though he knew Marco couldn’t see it.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. They had slowly begun to fit better against each other, their bodies relaxing and taking support from one another, Jean’s head easily resting on Marco and Marco’s weight supported by Jean’s tight embrace. Marco was still, and whenever he was about to say something, Jean could tell by the way he drew in air more hesitantly than normally.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“You know for what.” Marco took a pause, long enough to feel like a lifetime to Jean. “I’m sorry for walking out on you. I’m sorry for being a horrible boyfriend.”

“I wouldn’t say horrible, but hey, you’re my first, I have no means of comparison.”

“And I’m sorry for all those things I said to you.” Marco leaned forward to run his hand over his face, Jean following along like glued on his back. “I’m… I’m not disgusted by you. I’m… It’s, ah, it’s, I don’t like thinking about it, about what you did but…”

“You don’t need to.”

“I suppose. Either way… I’m sorry for saying I was disgusted.”

“It’s fine. I’ll get over it,” Jean responded flatly. It would sink to the deepest pits in his mind with the rest of the things he never wanted to think about again or remember; it would be right there next to the image of the horrified look on Marco’s face, of all those disappointed little Connies he had had to see over the years. It was a bottomless pit of bad memories; nightmares; things he couldn’t take back; things he couldn’t change. Marco didn’t question it, didn’t try to analyse it further. Whatever it was that _really_ bothered him now, it took him a long time to squeeze it out.

“You don’t—you don’t really think I’m a pushover, do you?” The question, in its naïve honesty, came out with a handful of uncertainty; embarrassment. Might have been Marco didn’t really want to know the honest answer, but he couldn’t _not_ ask. He could handle many things, but he couldn’t handle being a pushover; couldn’t handle the thought of Jean seeing him as one.

“Well, I mean, I didn’t use the word, but a bit.” Jean sighed, well aware of how telling just the back of Marco’s head could be as it drooped a little lower. “But it’s, I mean, you _can_ stand up for yourself, I know that much. You just don’t do it enough.”

“Oh.” Whatever kind of _oh_ it was, Jean wasn’t sure, but at least Marco didn’t sink any lower in his self-doubts.

“But also this is coming from a guy who nobody likes, so if I were you, I wouldn’t put too much weight on it.” Jean rather felt than heard the soft, almost inaudible laughter Marco uttered, his hand running over Jean’s bare forearm. The fingers felt his skin reassuringly, gently, and the way he briefly ran his nails against it made Jean shiver.

“ _I_ like you,” Marco promised, and of all the stupid responses Jean could’ve come up with, he didn’t use any. Instead he let out yet another sigh, humming quietly.

“Yeah… Thanks.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I suggest we get drinking and drink until one of us pukes or passes out.”

“I’m serious.” Marco squeezed his arm, firmly, his hunched posture straightening up slightly, Jean on the other hand sinking lower.

“I dunno, what is there to do?” he mumbled against Marco’s back, hearing him take a deep breath. “I’m probably gonna end up in jail and you’re about to get disowned by your parents. So how about we just enjoy this brief moment of peace before total destruction happens.” Marco expressed his disagreement by a sharp click of his tongue, shaking his head.

“I doubt you’re going to end in prison.” It seemed like he was talking to no one, still keeping his eyes in front of him, his hands revealing every little thing going on his mind; either he nipped Jean’s skin absent-mindedly, nervously, or he soothed it with warm strokes. Now, now he was running circles against it with his thumb to the point where Jean’s skin started feeling numb.

“And I doubt your parents would be so stupid to disown their prodigy son, no matter how gay,” Jean pointed out. Always trying to get in the last word. Marco let out the air in his lungs.

“One can always hope.” No hopefulness in his voice, whatsoever, but he was still good at repeating the things he was supposed to believe in; things that were supposed to be true. “But if they do, I-I guess I have no reason to hide anymore. Everyone will know, anyway, after I, uh, I come out to my parents, so…”

“So.”

“So… I, I guess it could be, uh, be a blessing in disguise.” He sounded unsure, and Jean didn’t want to fuel his desperation any brighter. It showed a mile away just how hard Marco was trying to find a loophole; the small print which would reassure him that everything was going to, eventually, turn out alright. Although it wasn’t a question, it felt like Marco was waiting for Jean to agree, to make it a little less unbearable.

“What’d be the first thing you’d do if you came out?” Jean asked instead; a diversion. Marco wallowed in the question for a moment.

“I haven’t thought about it, honestly, although it seems a little weird now that I think about it. But from the top of my head, I’d probably take you out to dinner.”

“You sap,” Jean snorted lightly, oblivious to the smile on his own lips.

“And then I’d hold your hand in public.”

“Would I be allowed to grab your ass publicly?”

“Don’t be vulgar.” The grin in Marco’s voice matched the one on Jean’s face. His hand was now barely moving, just massaging the skin ever so lightly; _lovingly_. “But honestly, I’ve hid for so long I don’t know how could I just… stop, to tell people that hey, I actually don’t have a girlfriend but a boyfriend and yes, I actually like men but you know what? It doesn’t change anything, I’m still the exact same person as before.”

“I know,” Jean tried to sound reassuring, tried to sound soft and gentle, the way Marco always did. “But trust me, in a few months people will barely register it anymore. They get used to it, they have to. That is, the people who stay and don’t cut ties with you.”

“Did you ever go through that?”

“Except with my parents, no. But I never had many friends to begin with, anyway.”

“How about the people you meet now? Do you just… tell them straight away or…?”

“Like, ‘hi, I’m Jean, I’m gay’?”

“Well, I don’t know?” Marco’s chuckle was awkward. “Probably not, huh?”

“I let them figure it out themselves.”

“What about Connie?”

“What about him? He’s always known.”

“Was he always okay with it?”

“As far as I know. He’s a good guy.” It sounded exactly like all the horrible, worn out clichés that did nothing to show just how good Connie was, but this was Jean, he didn’t go around praising anyone too lightly. Out of a whim, out of a moment’s nostalgia, he added, “The best, actually.”

“What about your brother?” The question shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but just the mere mention of it gave Jean that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t say anything, not immediately, and he took a moment to get over the ghostly sickness.

“What about him?” he cleared his throat before he asked. He already knew the answer, and he wasn’t sure what for he was buying time.

“Did he know?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“I told him and he, uh, he never mentioned it again.” Jean pulled his lower lip in between his teeth, taking the sharp anxiety stabbing him out on it. “He probably thought I was doing it to spite our parents, like, you know, dying your hair or getting your lip pierced or shit. Like it was a teenager rebellion, this ridiculous phase where you thought the more the older people were horrified by you, the _cooler_ you were.” Marco, the warm-hearted, kind-spirited Marco, he didn’t need to say much, but the way his hands wound over Jean’s, when Jean finally loosened his death embrace, the way their fingers entwined over Marco’s stomach, it lulled some of the sharpness away, made it easier for Jean to breathe against his back.

“Do you, do you ever… wonder if things had gone differently if he hadn’t, if, if he was still alive?”

“I used to. I mean, I had this… ah, you know, this crazy fixation that it was his fault I ended up like this. Like, if he had lived, I wouldn’t have come out to my parents, I wouldn’t have moved out when I was 16, I’d never started… I wouldn’t have…” The sentence was left in the air, hanging unfinished. Another shitty confession that would have made them both regret it the second he had said it, so he didn’t. Not even though it burned in his throat like acid. “I woulda stayed quiet, minded my own business, and then eventually moved out to live my life the way I wanted without pissing off my parents like I did.”

“So you would’ve never told them.”

“No. Maybe, I dunno. The less they woulda known, the better. I hated them, but if John, if—if he hadn’t died, there would’ve been no reason for me to hate them this much.”

“When was the last time you talked to them?”

“Six years ago, give or take.”

“Do you ever miss them?”

“Yes. No. I guess I just miss the idea of having a family, is all.”

“Do you think you’ll ever talk to them again?” Jean was familiar with Marco’s insatiable curiosity by now, but there was more to these questions than showed on the surface. He was calculating risks, trying to determine whether he would end up as far away from the safety of his home as Jean had.

“No. They could be dead for all I know, and _I_ could be dead for all they care.”

“I think they care. You’re their kid, they love you, no matter what you did or do. You can’t choose not to love your kids, even if… even if they don’t turn out as you want them to.”

“Maybe you should talk to your parents.”

“I can’t. I don’t want them to be disappointed in me.”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know them.”

“You just told me that parents love their kids, no matter what, don’t pull that shit with me.”

“Yeah but… I know they’ll still love me, but their sense of pride is very, very important to them. They’re going to expect me to change for them, and you know what? I just might, I’ll tell them I’ll do it, that I’ll just _stop_ being gay so they don’t have to be disappointed in me.” It was heart-breaking, it was more than what Jean could cope with. Their fingers still entwined, he squeezed Marco’s hands.

“Okay, for what it’s worth, you don’t have to do it now. You can just, be anyone you wanna be. You have my permission.”

“I wanna be Marco Bodt, a man who loves another man and doesn’t care what anyone thinks.” Of course he would. Jean chuckled, running his thumbs over Marco’s, his cheek pressed against Marco’s back.

“I like that. I wanna be Superman.”

“But I don’t love Superman.” Jean couldn’t see his face, but he was absolutely positive Marco was pouting like a little kid.

“Tough luck, kid, ‘cause Superman loves you.” It came out so fast Jean didn’t even realise it at first, but when he felt Marco stiffening against him, he retraced his words.

“You—”

“Let’s not, not right now, okay.” And for once, Marco let it go and didn’t bring it up again.

“Okay. But I still think you should be Jean, because he’s infinitely more interesting than Superman.”

“Fine. For you, I’ll be Jean.”

“Thank you.” Marco finally turned his head enough to look over his shoulder; to smile at Jean slumped against his back. Jean returned the smile, slightly weaker, but it was a smile nevertheless. “You want coffee?” There was nothing more beautiful Marco could have asked him, and when he voiced it out loud, the sincere, bubbly laugh from Marco vibrated against Jean until he finally sat up, his arms sliding off Marco.

Marco turned to face him, sitting sideways on the bed, and it felt like they hadn’t seen each other properly in a hundred years. Jean bit his lip, kept himself from saying anything, and instead ran his hand over Marco’s cheek, where the guy stopped it with his own hand, keeping it there.

“Look,” Jean mumbled, the way he felt mirrored in Marco’s face; exhaustion. “I’m sorry too. I’m sorry for everything.”

“No, Jean—”

“You’re a good person, I dunno how you do it, but—you’re a good person. Even with me, you are.” A shaky breath, and his heart beat a beat too fast. “I’m sorry, Marco, I’m sorry for all the shit I’ve brought on your doorstep. Somehow you might be the fucking worst and the absolutely best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“It’s okay. We’re okay.” For a moment the air sparked with everything beautiful, but then Marco’s brow furrowed and Jean nearly had a heart attack. “Also what do you mean by ‘worst’?” Jean pulled his hand away and shoved Marco on the shoulder playfully.

“I’m just saying,” he mumbled, finding Marco’s hand in his again. “I dunno why you’ve put up with me this long, I happen to know I’m not the most likeable guy out there, so… I just… I mean, I guess, I _am_ grateful you have. And I can live with you not understanding everything, I can live with that, I don’t care. I just need to know…”

“I’m not going anywhere, I promise. This time, I’m not, I swear.”

“You sure? ‘Cause this is who I am, and I’m not gonna change magically, I’m not…”

“I know. And I don’t expect you to.” A pause. “I promise.”

“Look,” he cast his eyes down, not quite sure why he had decided to do this. Maybe he just didn’t want anything else surprising them from behind corners, maybe he wanted to be the one from whom Marco would hear it. “There’s one more thing, I dunno if it matters, but I… I just, I want you to know one thing about me.”

“Okay.” Marco was reserved, and Jean couldn’t blame him.

“It’s… It’s just, look, when I moved out, I was 16, and, uh, I lived with this guy for a while. I guess I liked him, I guess I was naïve enough to think it could’ve been something; that was until he got bored of me and kicked me out. I, uh, I… You know, I, I, back then, I thought I was invincible. I thought, that shit, it doesn’t happen to me. It doesn’t hurt me, it can’t hurt me, it can’t… You know, you think you got the whole world figured out when you’re young.”

“Sounds familiar,” Marco admitted through a gentle smile.

“After spending several weeks practically homeless, I met another guy, and I, uh… He told me I could live with him for as long as it’d take me to find a place of my own. I just needed to…. You know, to help with things. Help with his errands and whatever. And, uh, I… I was just an errand boy, I delivered, gave them what they wanted if they had the money. I was invisible, under the radar, so it was easy, y’know. If they didn’t have money, I walked away.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“I was a dealer, small time, but still. I didn’t even think much of it at first, I mean I enjoyed the thrill it gave me, I enjoyed the sense of power, I mean, I was 17, I felt like such a fucking hot shot. I saw the goddamn junkies, their teeth rotting in their mouths and other shit you can’t imagine, and I felt so above them. So much better than them.”

Marco’s jaw clenched.

“It’s such a cliché, but I thought… it won’t happen to me. I won’t get hooked, I’m not weak like _them_. You hear it a million times over and you think, do these people hear ‘emselves? Do these people ever listen to themselves? ‘Cause I didn’t, fuck, I was fucking invincible. ‘It won’t happen to me’, like shit.”

He cast his eyes down, unsure of how to respond.

“It started easy, I smoked pot and we told ourselves, this shit is less dangerous than alcohol, this is practically _good_ for you, and I mean… that is, unless you’re a fucking whack job just waiting to happen.”

So he didn’t. He kept quiet.

“It brought out all my demons, eventually. At first it made me mellow, at first it was alright, but then the mellowness wasn’t enough, and I didn’t want mellow. Mellow made me incapable of fighting the voices in my head, the nightmares, so I needed something else. And this, later, this was one of the things… One of those things I blamed on John. It wouldn’t have happened if he’d stayed alive. Fuck, I blamed him for my own shit, and then I… then he just, he started being everywhere, and I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted him to stay dead. I wanted him back and I wanted him gone and he was neither.”

Marco swallowed, frozen in the spot.

“And I missed him. I missed him so fucking much. And the more I missed him, the stronger the dosage had to be so I could forget. And I’ve done some pretty bad things in my life, Marco, so bad I can’t even remember it all, I’ve had to forget to be able to live with myself. I had to forget John so I could forgive myself for letting him die.”

“Jean, you don’t have to—”

“No, listen. I want you to know, I… it’s not who I am anymore. I’ve had relapses and I might have, again, ‘cause sometimes it… It just gets so loud. Unbearable. It gets to the point where I can’t fucking breathe and I just—and I want you to know… I don’t do it on purpose. This is who I am but I didn’t choose to be _all_ this. But I want you to, I want to know you can forgive me, that you can accept me even if I’m fucked up beyond repair.”

“Jean, Jean,” Marco’s hands found his, their embrace warm over Jean’s cold hands. “We’ve all made mistakes. I don’t care what you did. I only care what you do from now on.”

“I’m scared, Marco, I’m scared I’ll do something and I won’t be able to stop myself.”

“I’m here, Jean.”

“I’m scared I’ll end up like him, without a warning, without an explanation.”

“You won’t.”

“And I’m—I’m scared you’re gonna leave because I didn’t want to trust you, I didn’t want anything to do with you but here you are and here I am, and I’ve never had anyone besides Connie who would’ve—who would’ve come so close, who would’ve _cared_ , and I am fucking terrified, Marco.”

“I know.”

“It scares me so much, and, and I… I’ve put everyone through so much and I’ll never stop feeling guilty over it, but I need you to know, it’s easier when you’re around. I feel safe when I’m with you. And you said… you said you don’t worry about as much when you’re with me, and I want you to know, I feel that way too. I can breathe when I’m with you.”

Marco squeezed his hands tighter.

“And I don’t believe in any of that love and fairy tales bullshit but maybe it’s not a bad thing if there’s someone who… someone who makes life seem a little less intolerable.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

“Yeah, so, uh, yeah. I… I got clean, after, after… Shit, I don’t know, time moved differently when you were constantly yoyo-ing yourself in between your high and the next hit.” Jean felt numb. “But, uh, Connie, he helped. I tried to push him out of my life, I tried so hard, I was so goddamn stubborn but he was the main reason I decided to finally stay sober. I could’ve, I mean I _did_ go back so many times, so many times he had to fucking save me from myself and you think, why would anyone destroy themselves voluntarily? And I don’t know. I still do it, and I don’t know why. I still keep pissing on everything and everyone and I just… I don’t know why.”

Marco had pulled him in his arms, his face buried in the messy hair. It was, finally, all coming out. It was spilling out with the force of running water, breaking all barriers.

“And sometimes, sometimes I miss it. Sometimes I miss just how easy and unimportant everything seemed when you were high. You didn’t need to do anything and you didn’t feel anything except this endless euphoria. You thought, you thought you could fix everything after this. Like, just one more hit, one more high, and then you’ll fix everything. You’ll stop being this human wreck and you’ll get a job and you’ll make everyone proud. Just one more hit, one more fix, one more, it was always one more.”

“How did you stop, then?”

“Connie told me either I get clean or he never wants to see me again, and after dragging my ass god knows how many times to the fucking rehab, the last time, I stayed. He got sick of rescuing me from my own shit. And I don’t blame him, I lied about everything, constantly, I owe him so much money I ain’t gonna be able to pay back in one lifetime, and I was just a burden to him. I know that, and I can never pay him back for all the things he’s done for me.”

“I don’t think he’s expecting you to.”

“You just always find something to say, don’t you.”

“Not always.”

“You know, this is the moment where I’m s’posed to reflect back on my life and say, well, look how far I’ve gotten, but I haven’t gotten anywhere.” He shrugged himself out of Marco’s arms, but he didn’t mean to make the guy to pull back surprised; hurt; he didn’t mean that, not now. He slid his hand on the sheets to catch Marco’s hand on his own, reassuring him with the slightest touch, no words necessary. “I’m still… I haven’t changed, I haven’t grown up, I haven’t… Everything’s still fucked up, I’m still nowhere in my life.”

“I think you’ve changed a lot, you’re not the same person you were when you showed up behind my door the first time.”

“No, I’m more messed up now. At least back then I thought I had everything under control, under _my_ control. Now I know nothing’s under my control.”

“Look,” the sigh Marco emitted sounded exasperated, to Jean at least, and the slight crease in between his eyebrows deepened. It was either worry or annoyance, Jean couldn’t tell anymore. “We can fix this. I promise you that. You’ve come a long way, even if you can’t see it right now.” If only his voice hadn’t betrayed how tired, how exhausted he was, if only the dark circles under his eyes didn’t seem to suck all colour out of his already pale face; if only; then maybe Jean could’ve believed him.

“Right,” he echoed hollowly, his agreement fooling neither of them. “We can fix this.”

“I mean it,” Marco was insistent. “We’ll fix this. We’ll fix all of this, everything.” Somehow Jean suspected if he were to argue, Marco would repeat those few words until his voice carried no more, so he didn’t. Instead he tightened his fingers around Marco’s hand.

“Okay,” he mused. It launched an enormous look of relief on Marco, like everything he said _could_ be right; could be made to happen. “I just, we’re okay, right? We don’t have to—no more fighting, right?”

“No,” Marco promised, the words accompanying a small smile, one full of relief. “We’re good. No more fighting.” Jean bit his lip, unconsciously.

“A kiss to make up?” he asked, rather sheepishly, and Marco flashed the widest smile he could. He leaned in, Jean too, and they met halfway, eyes falling shut and lips finding each other’s. Jean sighed into the kiss, some of the tension in his body leaving with the blow of the air through his nose, and Marco hummed appreciatively.

Jean learned that even when people said everything was alright, it didn’t mean that moving forward was in any way easy or granted. He would’ve very much liked to fall naked in the bed with Marco, but the guy, with as much as he tried to mask it, was hesitant, unsure, and he kept a distance, no matter how invisible. He didn’t return the same mindless enthusiasm Jean had, and instead he broke the kiss rather soon with an excuse to hug Jean; with an excuse to not let the situation get out of his hands. His hands didn’t wander, not even when Jean purred against his neck, trying to slide closer.

He knew what it meant, but he forgave Marco anyway. He didn’t let his own hands or thoughts wander, and pretended Marco getting up from the bed only moments after their truce didn’t feel like a slap in the face.

Compromises.

He followed Marco soon after, the guy concentrating on the coffee-maker in the kitchen. He didn’t notice Jean immediately, and he looked tired and not-okay, something Jean was sure he would try to keep as a secret for as long as possible.

“Why did you leave early today?” He saw Marco flinch out of his thoughts.

“Huh?” he answered absentmindedly, like he really wasn’t following. He clicked the coffee on before turning to face Jean, who was standing at the door frame.

“School. You said you left early.”

“Oh,” Marco mumbled, blinking a few times before he continued. “Oh, uh, I just…”

“You okay?”

“No, not really.”

“Look, I’m not gonna pry into anything, obviously, but… if you wanna talk…”

“No, it’s fine, I really don’t want to think about it right now.”

“Marco…”

“So _that’s_ how I sound, huh?” He cracked a genuine grin, one that actually didn’t need forcing or faking. “I can see why it annoys you.” Jean shook his head and finally leaned off the doorframe, walking to Marco and pushing his arms around the guy without a second thought. He didn’t try to kiss him, though, and Marco’s hands found a place to rest on the small of Jean’s back.

“Okay,” Jean murmured. “You don’t wanna talk about it, we won’t talk about it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just don’t make skipping classes a habit.”

“Okay, _mom_.” Marco grinned, sticking his tongue between his teeth. “You’re cute when you worry about me.” He planted a noisy kiss on the tip of Jean’s nose, just to be met with an if-looks-could-kill stare as he pulled back.

“How dare you,” Jean grumbled, Marco unable to hold back the loud snort.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckled softly, pulling Jean a little tighter against himself.

“Hey, what’s your favourite colour?”

“What?”

“Y’know, favourite colour. Your favourite food. Your biggest dream.”

“Well, uh, I like orange and deep blue. Food, uh, pasta, any pasta at all, and my biggest dream would be to live a happy, fulfilling life with my partner and kids.”

“Cool.”

“What about you?”

“Silver, pizza, and to be filthy rich with other people doing your shit for you, like cooking and cleaning.”

“And may I ask where all this came from all of a sudden?”

“Just trying what it feels like to be a normal person in a normal relationship.”

“Bored yet?”

“Extremely.”

“You know, I don’t think we’re _that_ far from normal.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s see, we got a closet homo and an ex-stripper. Perfectly normal.”

“Oh come on, we’re much more than that.”

“Well, you’re a to-be lawyer closet homo, and I’m a to-be jailbird ex-stripper.”

“I think that’s enough out of you,” Marco murmured, his voice dancing between teasing and threatening. Only he could do that and make it sound so effortless. This time there was no hesitation when they kissed, Marco didn’t stop to have second guesses. He let Jean’s hand roam, memorise his body like he had already forgotten how it felt, and didn’t resist when Jean opened his mouth tentatively against his.

Marco’s phone interrupted them, like an ill omen; phones ringing had brought nothing but bad news for them so far. The way Jean flinched didn’t escape Marco’s attention, not that the blonde tried to be too subtle about it. He didn’t say anything, not about the way Jean let the faintest distance slide in between them or how his hands drew back.

“Sorry,” Marco mumbled, fishing for the phone in his pocket. One look at the screen and the colour faded off his cheeks, and Jean felt like reaching out to him again.

“What?” he asked flatly, his voice as colourless as Marco’s face.

“It’s my mom.” The first thought that popped up in Jean’s head after hearing Marco’s unusually fragile voice was the thought of was the drama never going to end. It seemed whenever they got a break, a quiet moment just for themselves, something always came along and broke it, something always forced itself in between them. It was going to be like this forever, wasn’t it? Marco seemed to shrink in on himself again, shrinking out of Jean’s reach, out of his _mother’s_ reach on the other end of the phone.

“You don’t have to get it,” Jean said quietly. He just needed to reassure Marco of letting it go, for now, to get back to Jean and continue the quietness around them; the peace around them.

“I know,” Marco lied; lied, because every inch of him screamed of guilt, of self-loathing, of despair and self-disappointment.

“Seriously, Marco,” Jean’s words had more weight on them this time, and he placed his hand over Marco’s wrist. “You don’t have to beat yourself up for this, not every goddamn time.”

“I know.” Another lie. Jean wound his fingers around the wrist under his hand.

“Y’know,” he started. “I felt guilty for a long, _long_ time. Not only for John, I mean, but for my parents, too. And I mean, that’s human, right? I’m not completely fucked up, I have emotions and feelings and I _did_ miss them, from time to time. I felt guilty for doing what I did.” The light on the screen went out, the ringing dying out. Marco looked so out of place, so _lost_.

“But what you’re doing here, you can’t, _it_ can’t… It’ll fuck you up even worse the longer you keep pretending everything’s alright.”

“I’m not,” Marco blurted out, but he fell quiet when Jean squeezed his wrist. “I don’t. I know it’s not alright.”

“You could call her. Finally talk to her. You know, whatever happens… I’m here, right?”

“You’re here,” Marco repeated, his voice unsure, like the meaning behind the words hadn’t quite sunk in yet.

“Yeah,” Jean murmured, giving out a small smile. “I’m here. Whatever happens…”

“You’re here,” Marco said again, with more certainty.

“Yes.” Jean cracked a smile. “And if worst comes to worst, I have a couch that’s available…”

“You wouldn’t even offer _me_ the bed? Rude.” Marco smiled with the warmth of the sunlight, and it was comforting in a way that made everything seem well in the universe. Jean wanted it to be true, he wanted it so badly to be true, and pinching Marco’s side, he stuck out his tongue briefly.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Either put the phone away and forget about it, or, you know, call her. Don’t torture yourself.”

“What would I even say to her?”

“You could start with a ‘hi mom’.”

“Cut it out,” Marco huffed through a smile he couldn’t hide, and Jean grinned.

“Look, you’ve talked to her before, yeah?”

“I can’t believe I’m even considering this.” He laughed weakly, his eyes pleading support from Jean. He couldn’t make this decision alone, couldn’t step into the unknown without affirmation that he was doing the right thing. Jean had no idea what the right thing was; all he knew was that neither of them could do this for very long anymore. Neither of them could tiptoe around and hide behind backs and still remain sane, not if they kept this up. He realised that this, _this_ was the moment he would look back to later, the defining moment in their lives where it was decided whether they’d fall apart or continue walking together.

He wasn’t going to push Marco or force him to make a decision, but they both knew that if he backed down now, if he made an excuse to do it later, he would never do it. He would never do it and they would both tire out eventually, and it would end up in one of them walking away.

He smiled; put all his effort into it, hoping Marco would read it right. He couldn’t find any more words to try and assure Marco to make the decision he needed to make, so he stayed silent.

Marco’s gaze fell on the phone in his hand and he turned the screen on.

Jean gave the guy privacy by leaving the kitchen when Marco raised the phone on his ear, glancing at Jean as he did. Jean wandered to the living room, making sure it was far enough not to hear anything but the low humming of Marco’s voice, and then he paced around the coffee table, watching out for the pointy corners, too anxious to sit down or to stop moving. If he kept moving the anxieties couldn’t get a hold tight enough of him to make him freak out completely. His teeth abused the skin on his fingers, a catastrophic scenario after another popping in his head like mushrooms after the rain. His feet moved faster to try and keep the vivid _what if’s_ under control.

The worst of the _what if’s_ was the ‘what if it all ends up in shit anyway’.

What if it was doomed to end badly ever since the beginning?

What if?

The silence in the apartment indicated of the ended call, and since Marco didn’t appear from the kitchen immediately, Jean grew even more worried. He had already ripped the skin off one of his fingers. He started gnawing on another.

The silence dragged on for good few minutes, impossibly long and never-ending, until Marco finally walked to the living room, his face the familiar pale colour of horror and disbelief. A sight Jean had unwillingly grown to recognise, and he didn’t need to ask to know Marco had no good news to share. He asked anyway.

“Well?” he said, his voice pitching expectantly at the end of the word. He felt sick with worry, with disappointment, with fear that this could be the last time he got to share the same breathing space with Marco. He would never defy his parents, Jean knew he wouldn’t, not even with Jean’s help. They could talk big game but at the end of the day, he would hide with his tail between his legs rather than fight.

“She’s on her way over,” Marco spoke, his voice strangely strangled, and Jean had no immediate response to give. He just stared at Marco staring at him, unable to understand what it meant.

“Oh, uh, why?” he finally asked.

“She wants to talk,” Marco mumbled, and before Jean had the time to say anything, he added more feverishly, “why did I call her, again?”

“Um,” Jean begun, the disbelief in Marco’s face not giving up. “Y-you, uh. We agreed it was a good thing, right?”

“Did we?”

“I dunno, but look,” he walked to Marco, hoped that he would find the right words to say before Marco would draw back into his shell and hide away from Jean. “Now you have an actual chance to _talk_ to her, face to face, to finally… y’know, to stop hiding.” His hands had found Marco’s, his palms sweaty.

“And if it ends badly?”

“We’ll leave the country, head to Europe. I hear they’re more liberal there.”

“Why did I even ask.”

“I don’t know.”

“You know there’s a real chance this will end badly, don’t you?”

“Yes, but the question is, do I care?”

“I would hope so.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“And what if it won’t?”

“It will.” Jean wasn’t sure which one of them believed in his words more, or rather, did either of them. “It has to.” And Marco had no other option than to take his words and hang onto them. He gave a small nod, not trying to push his doubts any further.

When the doorbell rang, for the longest moment Marco couldn’t decide if he wanted Jean by his side or in his closet, with the rest of his skeletons. So he froze, unable to make a decision or a move in any direction, getting paler by the second.

“You gonna get it?” Jean threaded carefully with his words, following closely Marco’s reactions.

“No,” he wheezed. “Maybe she’ll leave soon.”

For an agonizing moment it really seemed like she was gone, but then the doorbell rang again, demanding and unyielding. She was still there and by the way Jean’s skin crawled at the loud doorbell, she was going to be for a while.

“Just open the door and get it over with.”

“I can’t—I can’t do that.” Marco shook his head violently, enough to make some colour return to his cheeks. “I can’t do this, I can’t do it.” He turned to Jean, his eyes wild with panic. He was going to flight rather than fight.

“You can do this, Marco. Nothing bad will happen, I promise. You don’t even need to tell her now, just… open the door. We’ll figure the rest later. Besides, it’ll be weird if you don’t.” Marco couldn’t argue it, but he wasn’t exactly happy about it. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed his objections, maybe stored them for another time. Without much more of a reply than a quiet mumble under his breath, he gathered himself and his courage and walked to the door. Just before he opened it, the doorbell rang again, making both of them jump slightly.

She was taller than Jean had anticipated, almost as tall as Marco. Not only that, but she also looked nothing like Jean had imagined, her being short and fat and with a permanent frown in Jean’s imagination. She definitely had the same features as Marco, the same amazing bone structure on her face, high cheek bones and same dark eyes. Her hair was short, shiny under the lights.

“Hey,” Marco said meekly, deflating like a balloon, making him look shorter than the woman standing next to her. She was frowning alright, permanently or not.

“What took you so long? I stood there at least five minutes.” Overreacting. Jean shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, still unnoticed by her, just like he preferred. “Are you sick? You look pale.” The back of her hand darted on Marco’s forehead. Marco almost, _almost_ dodged her hand, made a weird move back but apparently decided it was a bad idea.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, and her hand drew back, but she didn’t look convinced.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“W-what question?” Marco stuttered, but her attention then finally moved to Jean. Her eyes narrowed, her lips a tight line, as she analysed Jean, the big wheels in her brain going round.

“Hello,” she started casually, questions multiple in her voice, her gaze measuring Jean from head to toe as she tried to determine how to approach him. The things they said about first impressions.

“Hey,” Jean replied, hesitating a moment, but deciding to walk closer and reach his hand for a handshake. “I’m Jean.” She shook his hand quickly, assertively, and her face stayed sharp, alert.

“I’m Maria, Marco’s mother,” she said. “You’re not one of Marco’s classmates, are you?”

“Uhh, no, no, I don’t—I don’t study law.”

“Oh?” her other eyebrow rose slightly. “What do you study, then?”

“Um,” he cleared his throat. For some reason the option ‘nothing anymore’ didn’t seem like something he would want to say, not judging by her awaiting expression. “Psychology. I… I study psychology.”

“Oh.” She smiled quickly, the smile a polite yet not a warm one. “Well, that’s nice, I suppose.” Marco coughed beside them, the sound _painful_ , and Jean took a deep breath he had been holding unconsciously. She looked at Marco and her eyebrows knitted together.

“Are you just going to stand there all day?”

“No,” Marco mumbled. “Would you like some coffee?”

“I’d love to,” she replied, and this time the smile was a little friendlier, and it stayed a little longer. Not enough to actually make her any less intimidating, though. She shrugged her jacket off her shoulders and Marco took it, holding it for her to slide out of. She handed her purse to Marco like it was nothing, and when he hung her things, she walked past Jean to the kitchen in a way that Jean had seen many times; with pride, and with the sense of superiority to others. It wouldn’t have ticked Jean off as badly as it did, had he not taken a look at the defeat on Marco’s face as he walked to the kitchen after his mother.

Like a beaten down puppy, waiting for his turn to walk down the death row.

She was sitting down in the kitchen, her elbows on the table, her hands lightly together in front of her.

“Maybe I should go.” There was no way of telling whether that was what Marco wanted, but Jean wasn’t sure if his place was here right now, not with the look on her face like he was some kind of an intruder; a goddamn home wrecker.

Maybe he was, and that was actually the least of his worries.

“No, by all means, join us,” she pointed to a vacant chair at the other side of the table. “You’re Marco’s guest, and I wouldn’t want to be rude and chase you out.” Jean held his tongue, took a subtle glance at Marco, but the guy had his back to them, as he opened a cupboard. He didn’t seem to react to her words, so Jean sat down. Reluctantly.

“So,” she begun. Jean felt like an inmate waiting for execution now, too. She clicked her tongue, leaned a little more over the table. Her head cocked to the side, she looked _almost_ interested. “How do you know Marco?”

“Oh, we, uh.” He glanced at Marco again, but again he was greeted by the guy’s back. He was pouring the readymade coffee down the drain with an excuse to waste time making it again. There was a sound of soft rustling as Marco pulled something out of the cupboard, and he stayed quiet, consciously out of the conversation. “We—we, um, met through mutual friends. Turns out we both like—” What did Marco like? Jogging? Painting? Gay sex? “P-painting. And… stuff. Dostoyevsky.”

“Dostoyevsky?” No lie, she sounded surprised. Not even trying to hide it. Her eyebrows rose as she clicked her tongue. “So… what’s your favourite novel by him?”

“Crime and punishment.” The only one he knew, admittedly.

“Ah,” she chimed. “I see. Impressive, for someone as young as… you to enjoy his works.” It was a well-hidden insult, not the first one Jean had heard. For Marco’s sake, he bit his tongue.

“Thank you,” he smiled, faked until he reached a believable amount of sincerity.

“What do you like most about it? It’s been a while since I read it so I might’ve forgotten a detail or two, but it’d be interesting to hear your opinions on it.” She smiled, and Jean knew that smile. He had seen it multiple times on the faces of his customers. It said, ‘I’m going to devour you whole and there’s jackshit you can do about it’.

“T-the—” Jean couldn’t come up with anything, disappointed and angry that he still had to put up with people like this; people who wanted to see him crash and burn merely because he had the nerve to exist.

“Coffee’s almost ready,” Marco interrupted, his dry voice cracking at the end, hurting Jean’s ears. He turned around to face the conversation. “It’s—it’s almost ready.” Behind him, the first of the coffee started dripping.

“You never told me you liked Dostoyevsky,” she responded, leaving Jean alone for the time being. “If I had known…”

“How’s dad?”

“Why don’t you call him yourself and find out?” she shot back, not even batting an eyelash. Marco seemed to shrink a little, casting his eyes on the ground, taking support from the counter behind him. “Speaking of which, why _haven’t_ you called?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yes, dear, we’re all very sorry, but it doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’ve been busy.” He was worrying his lower lip with teeth. Even Jean could tell he was lying.

“So busy you couldn’t call your mother?”

“I’ve—”

“How are your studies going?”

“Fine, they’re going fine.”

“That’s not what I hear.” She had entwined her fingers together, looking at Marco. “You’ve missed your classes.”

“I—I—I missed _one_ class—besides, how would _you_ know?”

“Honey, we _pay_ for your education, and mind you, we pay a _lot._ It is my job to know.”

“I missed _one_ class, because I got _sick_ —”

“Don’t lie to me, Marco.”

“I’m _not_! I’m—”

“And don’t you raise your voice to me.”

“You’re not listening.”

“No, _you’re_ not listening. We pay a good money for your education and when I hear you’ve been doing god knows what instead doing what you _should’ve_ been doing—studying—I am not going to be pleased.”

“One class!” Marco couldn’t keep his voice down, couldn’t stop the force with which it came out. “I missed one damn class, and I am _not_ lying. I got sick, alright?” The coffee had stopped dripping. The warm smell of it floated in the air, reminding Jean of the endless pounding in the back of his head.

“If you don’t have your priorities straight—”

“One class, mom. Am I not allowed to get sick?”

“Sweetie.” Her voice changed, took a turn from annoying to extremely intimidating yet gentle. Jean considered slithering out of his chair and then out of the kitchen, but he didn’t dare to move. “Remember when you were 10, and you got this nastiest flu?”

“Yes, I remember, so what?” Marco crossed his arms over his chest as if in a weak attempt to look intimidating himself.

“So,” she spoke softly. Motherly, even. “Remember how I almost had to tie you in your bed because you didn’t want to miss school? Because you had a test coming and you _couldn’t_ miss it, not even though you were delirious with fever. Remember it?” Marco’s jaw tightened as he swallowed.

“Mmhmm.”

“So, Marco, I am _sorry_ if I find it hard to believe you’d miss a class unless your head had come off your shoulders.” She shook her head slowly. “You are lying to me and I don’t like it.”

“I haven’t fallen behind or anything, mom, it’s—”

“Maybe you’ve found something more _important_ to put your time in, maybe you’re capable of paying for your own tuitions, then.”

“There’s nothing more important to me than—”

“How’s Christa? How is she doing?” The coldness of her voice chilled the whole room. Jean’s eyes were glued on the table in front of him, where he followed the wooden patterns on the surface with his gaze.

“She’s fine, I guess,” Marco muttered.

“Too bad.” She let out a heavy sigh, was quiet for a moment. “She was a really nice girl. We really liked her.” Jean bit his tongue for the hundredth time and Marco kept silent.

“Your father finished his novel.”

“That’s great.”

“No, it’s not, it’s absolute garbage. But I guess it makes him happy.” She shrugged easily as Jean’s nails sunk in his palms. “Sweetie, sit down, you standing there like a statue is unnerving.” She extended her hand in front of her, gesturing the chair. No one mentioned the coffee. Jean moved his chair a little to make room for Marco by the window. He sat down, a momentary silence surrounding them, but it was the hostile kind of silence. The kind where they all knew it was just the calm before the storm.

“I should probably—” Jean begun with a deep breath, but she was quick to shoot him down.

“No, you sit right there,” she said sharply. “What did you say you studied, again? Psychology?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew Marco how?”

“Through mutual friends.”

“Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed, and for a brief second she looked like a wild animal about to tear Jean a new one. “Is this the kind of company you keep nowadays?” She didn’t even pry her eyes off Jean when she asked it, and Jean couldn’t stop the way his upper lip curled at her words.

“Mom—”

“We’re worried about you, Marco.” She turned her attention to him now. “After your breakdown at the charity…”

“Mom, please stop.”

“Whatever _phase_ it is you’re going through now—”

“Mom—”

“—you’re too _old_ for this kind of behaviour. What is it, is it because you never rebelled when you were a teenager?”

“ _Mom_ —”

“Because if that’s it, you can rebel all you want, but please don’t do it at the expense of your studies.”

“Mom…”

“It’s time for you to set your priorities straight.”

“My priorities are _fine_ , stop talking to me like I’m a child.”

“I will when you stop acting like one. All that nonsense at the charity—”

“Mom, please—”

“—of I don’t even want to remember what, do you have _any_ idea how humiliating that was? That poor girl, she had to carry you out—”

“I’m _gay!_ ”

Just like that.

The silence was deafening. Jean had never understood the expression, but he understood it now, as his ears rang with how quiet it was. He could hear everything and nothing at the same time. Her whole _being_ seemed to freeze, to come to a complete halt, her mouth slightly open, her eyes cast down as in in shame. Jean held his breath, afraid he’d break something if he made the smallest sound.

“Y-you, she, um,” she began, and both Marco and Jean followed as she tried to painfully regain her words and her composure. “She was a really nice girl, you really should’ve stayed with her.”

“Mom…” Marco’s voice was a mumble, like a soft echo from deep under the ground.

“Yes, a nice girl. I wonder how she’s doing, you should call her to have lunch with us someday.”

“Did you hear what I said?” His mumbling got louder as his words got clearer. They were both desperate, but Jean couldn’t tell which one of them was more so.

“We’re worried about you, Marco, I and your father. Mina, too. We all agree you haven’t been yourself lately.”

“I’m fine, I’ll be fine as soon as you stop doing that.”

“You’re going through a phase, maybe we were a little demanding of you when you were a child, but—” Marco slammed both his hands on the table, palms down. Jean flinched, and so did her.

“It’s not a phase!” he cried out. “I’m gay, mother, I have always been, and I _will_ always be. When other guys at school discovered girls, I discovered boys. I was never interested in any of the girls you introduced to me. Remember Petra? The only reason I went out with her three times was to get you to leave me alone for a while.”

“I’ve heard enough.” The chair under her made a screeching sound when she pushed herself up. Her attempts at trying to intimidate Marco to shut up weren’t working anymore. Now she just looked thin and fragile, ready to be knocked down by the slightest punch.

“Sit down, mom.” Marco’s voice was stern. “I’m not done, and you will listen to me for once.” She hesitated, not even looking at Marco, but slowly lowered back on the chair. She pulled it closer to the table quietly.

“I want you to understand this, mom. I’m gay. It’s not something I chose to be, believe me, and up until a few months ago, I would’ve given virtually _anything_ to—to not be. But I’ve come to realise that it’s not something you can turn on and off by the press of a button, and if I’ve made my peace with it, then so should you, _mother_.”

“If you for one second think I will give my blessing to—to this…”

“All my _life_ everything I’ve _ever_ wanted to do was to make _you_ and dad proud of me. All my life, mom. Ever since I could understand anything, I’ve done everything so that you could be proud of me. So that you’d never be disappointed in me, so that _I_ could be proud of myself, too.” He took a trembling breath and Jean _almost_ reached for him under the table. “Tell me, mom, has there ever been a time you and dad weren’t proud of me? Have I ever disappointed you? Excluding this moment, since you don’t have to tell me what a disgrace I am to the family right now. Tell me, mother, and be honest.” She took a long pause, still not looking at her son, her pride forbidding her to make this any easier.

“No, I suppose not.” She said it reluctantly, but with someone who preached about honesty, she couldn’t claim things that weren’t true.

“Now I want you to remember that. I want you to think about all those times, like when I got into law school, when I was chosen the valedictorian in high school… I want you to remember that, because all that time, I was gay. I was always gay.”

She refused to acknowledge him, eyeing her own reflection on the window.

“You know what the worst in all of this is? It’s not that I’ve been hiding my entire life or that I’ve been lying to everyone this whole time, but that… For—for six months, I dated this guy. Fell in love for the first time. Then, got my heart broken for the first time, and it _hurt_. So much. And you know what made it so much more painful? That I couldn’t call my parents to talk about it, I couldn’t tell _you_ about my first love and my very first heartbreak. Because you would’ve never accepted it, you would’ve never validated my feelings. _That_ was the worst part of it all.”

She was dead silent. Her jaw was clenching and unclenching, her hands slightly trembling on the table. She entwined her fingers together to keep them from shaking, making it look like she was praying.

Maybe she was. ‘Dear god, smite my son right now’.

“I see,” she spoke eventually; inhaled audibly, her nostrils flaring, then exhaled. Her eyes were still cast anywhere but at Marco, whom she still couldn’t bear to look at. The pride in her would end up destroying her one day, Jean had seen it before. She’d lose everything and be too proud to try and stop it from happening.

Jean almost, _almost_ felt bad for her; felt bad for the way she looked so _fragile_ , the skin of her face colourless and wan. Her lips squeezed together in a thin line, it brought out the lines around her mouth, as if she had grown decade older in the time she had spent in the apartment.

“Say something, mom,” Marco erased the silence, impatience and worry filling his trembling voice. Jean could only imagine what was going on in his mind, surprised he was still holding it together. The skin around Jean’s thumbnails had been ripped to shreds with nervousness.

“I really don’t know what to say,” she answered honestly, inhaling deeply. Even with how lost she was, her voice still had her pride in it. Her eyes rose slowly, and they studied her son’s face. She had this look on her, like she didn’t know who she was looking at.

“I’m the same person I’ve always been.”

“ _Hardly_ ,” she responded immediately, spat the word out like a bad taste in her mouth. “My son—”

“I _am_ your son,” Marco raised his voice, and even if she couldn’t notice the way it shook, Jean did. It shook with the held back fear of losing this battle. Marco swallowed, almost forgetting how to breathe. “I’m not—I didn’t _choose_ to be this to spite you.”

“Why now?” she asked, and everything else in her voice gave way to honest confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she started slowly. “Why _now_? Why did you decide—why did you feel the need to do this _now_?”

“I don’t—I don’t know.”

“You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me?”

“What does it matter? I did it, it’s out in the open now, you can’t go home and pretend this never happened.”

Her eyes turned to Jean. Her gaze held the weight of a thousand accusations, and Jean hoped she had the good grace of not voicing them out loud.

“I see.” Her voice was icy, her stare unrelenting. Marco made the connection too as he shifted in his chair.

“It doesn’t matter,” he tried, but she had long stopped listening to him.

“What’s your role in all of this?” The question, aimed at Jean, rang in his ears. Even though she and Jean’s mother were nothing alike, she, too, was going to guilt-trip him, to try and blame this on him.

“A friend for moral support,” he answered.

“I see,” she said, yet again. “So _you_ put my son up to this?” There it was, just as Jean had expected.

“Put him up for this? What is he, _five_? I’m pretty sure he’s a grown ass fucking man, capable of making his own goddamn decisions.” Marco let out a strangled gasp, and his mother’s eyes widened, the rest of the colour that might have been there practically draining from her face. Jean realised this was an awful direction to take the conversation to, but he was past the point where he could keep his tongue under control. “How ‘bout stop treating him like a kid?”

“How dare you,” she huffed, thoroughly insulted, half of it completely fake. “I know my son, and he would never—”

“ _Obviously_ you don’t know him as well as you think you do.” Jean sneered. “You should be really fucking grateful for a son like him, you should be the one seeking for his goddamn approval, not the other way around.” Her eyes bulged out of her skull, a visible vein on her forehead throbbing. She looked furious, and Jean grew more irritated.

“ _You_ —”

“Yes, _me_ ,” Jean barked back. “You fucking privileged people and your small fucking bubbles, you better pray to your money god your son will ever want to see you again after you’ve treated him like _scum_ , even though he must be the best fucking thing that ever came out of you.” Her mouth open, gaping like she had forgotten how to breathe, she stared at Jean in utter confusion. It mixed with _fear_ ; she wasn’t afraid of Jean, but she was afraid of how far he might go.

She wasn’t the only one. Jean was on a roll, and he opened his mouth to continue, to stomp this bitch back to the depths of hell where she had crawled out of, ready to take _everything_ he had tolerated for so long out on her, but suddenly Marco was on his feet by him, his chair making a loud _screech_ as it practically flew backwards on the floor. He grabbed Jean by the arm, his shoulder, whatever he could get a grip firm enough to pull him up and push him out of the kitchen.

“I’m not done,” Jean protested as he was shoved backwards, Marco’s fingers sinking into his skin painfully.

“You’re done,” Marco muttered under his breath and let go of Jean only after they were out of the kitchen. “I’m—I’m—” Marco’s hands came up as he struggled to find his words, whatever they might have been. Jean shook his head, interrupted Marco before he could get himself together.

“I’m not gonna let her treat you like this,” he murmured; underlined his words by grabbing Marco’s hands and pushing them down. “I’m not gonna—”

“Jean—”

“No, I love you, and I’m not gonna let her—I’m not gonna let _you_ treat yourself like this, no matter what.” The words came out so quickly, so naturally that Jean disregarded them the second they were out of his mouth. Now was not the time to analyse the train of his thought further. “You deserve so much better, you are so much better than—than _her_ , or this.” He still held onto Marco’s wrists, kept his gaze locked in with his own, although holding onto him was more for his own sake; as long as he felt Marco, he wouldn’t run. As long as Marco felt warm and real against his touch, Jean would stay. Every gut instinct he had, they were screaming for him to get out, to run as fast and as far as he could. He’d been through this hell once; he didn’t want to go through it again. He already carried the guilt planted in him by his own mother.

But more than that, he wasn’t going to let Marco become like him.

“I’m not gonna let her do to you what my mom did to me.”

For a short moment it looked as if Marco was about to cry. His eyes went glassy, his lower lip quivering as he opened his mouth to say something; only nothing came out. Just a breath of air and he bit his lip, kept his emotions from spilling out, swallowed them down. He pulled Jean into a hug, wrapped his arms tightly around his waist, and buried his face into the crook of Jean’s neck.

As Marco drew comfort from Jean’s arms around him, Jean did the same. He didn’t feel so lost, out of place, with Marco’s heartbeat so close to his own.

He felt like he belonged. Maybe Marco did too.

“Whatever happens,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

 

Marco’s mother passed them without a word, made sure to keep her eyes off the both of them. Her pride never wore off, not even now. Not even after it had taken a hit, not even after wearing it almost weighed too much for her to keep herself straight. She managed to, however, managed to look untouched.

“Mother…” Marco tried to help her with her jacket, but she refused.

“I don’t want to hear one word from you,” she snapped, pulling her jacket on. “ _Or_ you.” She shot a glare at Jean, but he didn’t shrink under it. He kept his ground, let her glare him all she wanted, until she gave up.

“I truly hope you know what you’re doing,” she spoke to Marco, her eyes staring past him.

Marco didn’t reply, and she opened the door and let herself out.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Criticism? Suggestions? Throw them at me and see me melt because _oh my god someone commented_. Yeah.


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